


Tapetum Lucidum

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Begging, Betrayal, Blood, Blood and Gore, Bondage, Caring Dean Winchester, Caring Sam Winchester, Creampie, Crying, Cutting, Derogatory Language, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Dean/You, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fear, Force Choking, Forced Orgasm, Groping, Gun Violence, Healing, Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knifeplay, Loss of Control, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Touching, Painplay, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sam Winchester, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Shifter Dean Winchester, Slut Shaming, Swearing, Threats, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Violence, breeding threat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-04-28 10:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14447850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Dean shows up on your doorstep in the middle of the night, unannounced. Your first mistake is letting him in.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing major happening yet, but please heed the warnings!

It’s 1:15 a.m when there’s a sharp knock on the door; the sudden _**BANG-BANG-BANG!**_ wrenching you from dreamless sleep.

_What the hell?_

Your heart is already pounding in your chest by the time you swing your sleep-stiff legs over the side of the bed. You sit frozen for a minute, head cocked to the side - maybe you were dreaming.

**_BANG-BANG-BANG-BA-BANG!_ **

You flinch; the extraneous pounding is so out of place, so _unnerving_ at this hour, that your first instinctive thought is to run and hide.

_Stop it. You’re a goddamned hunter for Christ’s sake._

Swallowing thickly, you bend down, reaching for the box underneath your bed. It’s a small nondescript shoebox, but the items within have saved your life on more than one occasion; your holy trinity for defense against the supernatural: a flask of holy water for incapacitating demons, a bag of salt for expelling spirits, and a silver blade for most anything else.

You quickly tug on a pair of faded bluejeans and an old band t-shirt off your laundry-strewn bedroom floor before tucking the salt and holy water in the back pockets, slipping the blade in the back waistband of your jeans. You jerk the hem of your shirt down and over your hips to conceal the weapons.

There’s another cluster of thundering knocks when you round the hallway to pad down the carpeted stairs to the front door. You flick the porch light on, lifting up on your toes to squint through the tiny peephole.

“Dean…” you whisper against the door. Your insides liquify and you sway a little at the sight of those wide shoulders and full lips. How long’s it been? Seven? Eight months?

He looks tense, nervous; head swiveling left and then right as he waits and your chest seizes - someone or some _thing_ must be after him. You quickly step back on your heels as you unlock the bolt, heaving the door open.

He lights up when he sees your face, flashing you a bright-happy smile as the tension drops in his shoulders.

“Dean?”

“Hey, kiddo.” There’s something off about his voice, the intonation is all wrong. You can feel the apprehension crease your brows, prickle the skin on your arms.

“Can I uh…can I come in?” he asks, tossing a nervous glance behind him. You start to step back, but something deep in your gut stops you.

“What’s going on?” Your voice thickens with intuitive suspicion. He takes a minute, swallowing, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Hunt went South,” he says. “Way south…demons.”

Ice prickles over your scalp and down the back of your neck as the color drains from your face.

“ _Demons?_ ” you echo. You knew they existed, had heard stories, hence the holy water, but you’d never met one face-to-face, never had to actually use the stuff. He nods.

“Yeah. So…can I come in?” He releases a heavy exhale when you don’t immediately answer.

“Please?”


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic/detailed descriptions of rape in this chapter. DO NOT READ if this is a trigger for you.

You step back, gesturing him inside with an open palm. It always takes your breath away, the size of him, the way he absolutely _dwarfs_ you.

He scuffs his feet on the doormat before taking a couple of steps into your simple living room, where he stops to look around. “S’nice place you got.” Your brows wrinkle in confusion.

“You okay, dude?” you ask slowly. “You act like you’ve never been in my house before.” Dean’s eyes widen, like this is new information. But before new suspicion can settle in your belly, he’s shaking his head,

“No - no, I just mean it’s nice. You know - to have a home.”

You give him a soft, closed-lipped smile. “Yeah…yeah, I’m fortunate,” you agree. And it’s true - most hunters live like nomads; squatting in vacant houses or jumping from motel to motel across the country. It’s a rare thing to have a place to call your own. So you indeed were very fortunate that your grandmother had left you this old home. It’s badly in need of repairs, but it suffices.

There’s an awkward silence for a moment before you speak again. “Beer?” you ask with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “I mean - if you don’t mind.”

You nod, moving ahead to lead him into the kitchen.

“So where’s Sam?” you ask as you make your way to the fridge. A chair groans against the floor as Dean takes a seat at the table. “Uh, he’s sittin’ this one out.”

Confusion washes over you as you blink into the refrigerator, scooping the necks of two beer bottles between your fingers.

 _Why the hell would Sam ‘sit this one out’? That isn’t him. He wouldn’t leave Dean alone to fight something of this caliber_.

You slide a bottle across the table as you pull out a chair opposite him.

“Thanks,” he mutters, bringing the beverage to his lips. You mirror him, frowning in thought as the smooth, chilled liquid glides down your throat.

“Why would he do that?” you ask. “I mean, this is _demons_ we’re talking about. That’s not a one-man j-”

The faint sound of your cell ringing upstairs causes your head to turn towards the noise. And that’s when you see it, in the mirrored oven door.

Tapetum Lucidum: reflected eyes. You’re having a beer with a goddamned shapeshifter. Posing as Dean Winchester.

Your brain frantically reels for an explanation. What the hell does a shifter want with you? You aren’t hunting anything at the moment. You’ve put one down before, though. Maybe it’s family. Or maybe…oh god. Maybe the boys are hunting one and - _Shit_. And now it’s in possession of Dean’s every thought, every memory. It knows who you are.

You’re frozen in place. This is bad. This is so fucking _bad_.

You could try to make a run for it, but you’d never been a strong runner - he’d easily catch you. You have the silver blade, but you’re in a poor position to attack. You need to catch him off guard.

So you decide to play dumb.

“You need to get that?” You swivel back towards him. He’s leaning forward, palms braced against the edge of the table, like he’s either going to push away or lunge forward at any minute.

“H-huh? Uh, no…no - It’s probably just a telemarketer.” you stammer.

“Kinda strange for telemarketers to be calling in the dead of night, isn’t it?” There’s a weird edge to his - _its_ \- voice now. Is he _challenging_ you?

Your heart hammers as you choose your words. “Wh-who cares? I don’t wanna talk to anybody, not when you’re here.” You force a smile. It seems to satisfy him, because now he’s relaxing into the back of the chair, downing another swig.

You eye him carefully as he moves, paying special attention to his hands and shoulders.

It’s a funny thing, how you can sense _everything_ when your adrenaline is pumping. You can smell the lavender-scented cleaner you cleaned the bathroom with yesterday, can hear the hum of the air conditioner. You can even feel your pulse in your neck and wrists, how the blood seems to pump harder with every passing second.

The sound of ‘Dean’ setting his now-empty bottle on the table startles you, your nerves jolting at the low rattle of glass on wood.

“You’re jumpy tonight.” The sound of his voice breaks you out of your trance. _Is he smirking?_

You clear your throat, “Yeah,” you clip a laugh, “Been a weird night.”

He’s definitely smirking. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

Your lips twitch in an attempted smile. You’re starting to visibly shake now. You gotta get the jump on him.

“You wanna another?” you ask, gesturing at the empty bottle. “I think _I_ want another,” you add.

“No thanks.” Nodding, you push back in your chair. The plan is simple: your back will be facing him as you go for the fridge, all you have to do is twirl and stab. The first pierce won’t kill him, but it’ll sure as hell hurt, and with you standing, you’ll have the advantage.

Your hand goes to the blade tucked in your pants as you round the table, but before you can carry out the move, there’s a chair-against-linoleum scraping sound and in a flash, a heavy arm is coiling around your middle.

Your ear-splitting shriek is cut off when you’re spun and slammed, face-first onto the table. Your hands smack against the surface as you turn and lift your head at the last second, preventing your face from whacking against the polished surface. A heavy clanking noise rings through the kitchen as the shifter disposes of the silver weapon, sending it clattering into the sink.

Pain blooms across your hips and palms at the impact and you let out a breathless groan as he gathers your arms in a massive hand, roughly pinning them behind your back. You grunt when you feel the salt and flask slipping from your back pockets.

“Oh, you came _prepared_.” the monster says behind you. “Smart little hunter, aren’t ya?” The words sound sickeningly wrong uttered behind Dean’s honeyed voice.

“Fuck you!” you grit through clenched teeth. He sniggers.

“Oooh, _ouch_.” he laughs. “Tough words for a little girl in your position.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” you huff. “I swear to God.”

There’s a dreadful silence and then you feel warm lips brushing against your ear. “Yeah, well…” he rumbles. “God’s not here.”

Your entire body _seizes_ in stone-cold fear. This is it. This is how you die. At the hands of Dean Winchester’s nefarious clone.

You squeeze your eyes shut, damming the hot tears that try to spill out. You won’t cry for him, won’t give him the pleasure.

You grunt when thick fingers tighten around your wrists. “Why?” you ask, pitifully. “Why me? What do you _want?”_

You don’t know why you’re asking, really. You don’t expect him to give you an acceptable answer, but something in you just has to _know_. And whatever it is, maybe you can somehow use it against him.

“Yes!” he gleefully exclaims. “I’m so glad you asked. This is my favorite part!”

_Oh god, this monster is…is a fucking **monster**._

“See,” he starts. “Normally, I’ll just find a random pretty girl and spend a few fun hours with her. Well, fun for me at least.”

_Fun? Oh god, what kind of fun?_

“Sometimes I’ll go for a single girl,” he explains. “But I _really_ like it if they have a husband or a boyfriend.” He giggles then, fucking _giggles_. And the damp warmth of his breath makes your stomach turn. “The look of betrayal in their eyes is fucking priceless!” He sighs. “Almost as good as when the life goes out of em.”

You can’t stop the stray tear from leaking out then. You turn your face closer into the table to try to mask it, but your shuddering breath makes it known.

“Oh, hey - shhhh, don’t cry…” he coos with faux sympathy. “I thought you were a tough girl.”

Your nerves steel at that and you swallow, “I can’t _wait_ to watch the life leave yours.” you spit cooly.

“Ah, there she is.” You can _hear_ the twisted grin. “Anyway, to wrap it all up, your uh…hunter friends caught on to me and my…extracurriculars. So I had to take em out.” Your chest clenches and you release a sob.

 _The Winchesters are dead_.

“Oh, don’t worry, they’re not dead. Yet.” You let out a small breath of relief. “No, I want them to see what’s left of you before I gut em.”

Your lips curl in an icy smirk, “You don’t know who you’re fucking with. _Freak_.”

You feel him stiffen behind you. “Don’t. Call me that.” he sneers. You’ve hit a nerve.

“Now,” his voice lightens, “That’s enough foreplay, dontcha think?” You growl in response. His fingers shift around your wrists and then he’s reaching around your hips to pop the button on your jeans.

_Wait, what?! - oh god, no!_

You grunt, bucking back, trying to stagger him off of you, but he doesn’t budge. “Relax,” he whispers. “It’s just me, it’s just Dean.” You feel sick.

“You’ve always wanted this haven’t you?” Your stomach hardens as he drags down the zipper. “Dean has. God, if you could see his _filthy_ thoughts. He’s got it for you. _Bad_.”

“Please stop,” your shaky voice is barely a whisper. “Please.”

“Fuck,” he groans. “Love it when you sluts beg.”

_Jesus Christ. This is actually going to happen._

“You know…” he drawls, “This part is relatively new for me. I didn’t start out fucking my girls. I’d just cut em up and beat off afterwards.” Another tear trickles down your cheek to pool against the tabletop. “But I quickly found…” he’s tugging your jeans down over your hips. “…that this makes it so much _better_. More…complete.” His fingertips lightly trail down the curve of your bare ass. “I mean, besides murder, this is the _worst_ thing that can happen to a girl…” his hand flattens against the fleshy globe and squeezes. “…Isn’t it?”

You hiccup. In your mind’s eye, you can just see the guys barging in through your front door to your rescue. You wait for the sound, but it never comes.

The unmistakeable jingle of a belt buckle being unfastened seems to ignite a fire in you and you _lunge_ back - against solid muscle. You can feel his abs pressing hard against your restrained hands as he leans over you.

“Shhh…” he shushes, smoothing your hair over to the side so he can speak directly into your ear. “Stop struggling and this can be good for you.” You snarl, heaving your body forward this time and actually manage to scrape the table forward with the effort - but the action only prompts him to press more of his weight against you, effectively rendering you immobile.

You jolt when rough fingers reach around to brush against your folds, the contact makes your skin crawl. “Don’t - d _on’t!”_ you push out through clenched teeth.

You screech when he roughly plunges a thick finger inside, wriggling the digit uncomfortably against your walls. He sighs. “Damn. I was hoping you’d be at least a _little_ wet. Let’s see if we can do anything about that.”

He removes his hand only for two wet fingers to return a moment later. He easily slips them inside, wasting no time in starting a quick, pumping rhythm. Your inner muscles twitch against him as he works, desperately trying to push out the unwanted intrusion.

You make a strangled sound when he shifts his hand, pushing in deep and crooking his fingers. You’re angry at how quickly he found your sweet spot, angry at how your cunt sings in twisted pleasure.

The shifter behind you hums in satisfaction. “Theeere it is,” he rumbles. “Now you’re startin’ to cooperate.”

“N-no!” you pant. _“Stop!”_

“I was hoping you’d come around my cock, but you can come in my hand if ya want…hell, you can come twice. That’d be nice, huh?”

“Never gonna happen,” you croak. “I _won’t_.”

“Hmm,” he muses. “We’ll see.”

But you realize with sickening horror that you are indeed spiraling towards an undesired orgasm. Especially when he speeds up his fingers, the curve of them slapping against your awakening clit.

“S’okay,” the monster purrs, “It’s Dean’s fingers - you’ve always wanted Dean’s fingers buried inside you, right?” You can only grunt. “I could tell the minute I walked in…the way you looked at me...”

You refuse to admit it, but you’re moaning now, low in your throat.

“C’mon, fierce little hunter,” he breathes. He’s thrusting his fingers so fast that you can hear the slapping sounds his palm makes against your skin. “Come for Dean.”

And - God help you - you do come, liquid fire bursting in your belly, blanketing throughout your limbs, and slicking down onto the shifter’s fingers.

“Damn!” he marvels, slipping his wet hand from you to comb through your hair, “That happened a lot faster n’ I thought it would.” You whimper, your cheeks scalding in shame.

“Just kill me,” you whisper.

The thing laughs, “Not yet, little girl. I haven’t had _my_ fun yet.” Weight lifts from your back as he pulls away, heavy boots kicking at your feet, nudging them as far as the jeans hugging your thighs will allow. His fingers tighten around your sore wrists as you try to jerk them free.

“I’d have you suck my dick, but somethin’ tells me you’re a biter.” he cracks.

“Why don’t you find out for yourself.” you sneer back and he chuckles.

“Man, I could get used to you - you got a fire in you sugar. And I _like_ it.”

Before you can respond, you feel the wide, blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

“Fuck - stop! Goddammit, _stop!”_ You’re screaming now, uncaring of how pathetic it makes you sound, how _powerless_ it makes you feel.

Your cries are answered with an absolutely _sinister_ chuckle as he pushes forward, your slick folds easily parting for him. You’re making a high-pitched, strangled sound as he advances and your walls ripple painfully around his thickness.

“Damn,” the shifter breathes, “Fuckin’ tight. Dean don’t know what he’s missin’.” He stills, moaning low once he’s fully sheathed in your heat. “I know you two haven’t fucked because you ‘don’t want to ruin a friendship’, but shit - he’d be changin’ his mind if he could feel what I’m feelin’.” You whimper helplessly into the table as he slides back out.

“Ah!” you cry as he roughly slams back in. Tears are freely streaming from your eyes now, trickling across the bridge of your nose to puddle under your cheek.

“That hurt baby?” he asks, but there’s no compassion in his voice. You don’t respond - he knows the answer. It’s evident in the dark snicker that pushes past his lips when he rocks back.

He changes the grip on your wrists, pulling you back on him instead of thrusting in. You yelp as he repeatedly jerks you against him, splitting you wide over and over his throbbing cock. Your arms burn with the way he has them twisted behind you, the pain rapidly cresting into numbness.

He moans deeply as he fucks you, the table creaking as it rocks with his efforts.

“Shit-shit-shit,” he grunts as he drives you onto him, ruthlessly using your body to get himself off.

You let your eyes fall on the counter ahead of you as you make the conscious decision to escape this reality - you’re not here anymore. You aren’t being raped by a shapeshifter over your kitchen table. No, _Dean_ is fucking you from behind. Those are _Dean’s_ hands on you, not a monster’s. Those animalistic sounds are coming from _Dean’s_ mouth, not the thing impersonating him.

Your disassociation seems to be working - in fact it seems to be working too _well_ , because that hot coil is tightening down below, signaling an approaching climax.

_No!_

The shifter moans as he stills his hips to lean back over you, and you can feel his sweat-damp shirt against your hands as he presses into your back to hook an arm around your throat. You jerk when you feel the familiar ghosting of lips against your ear.

“You’re close, baby,” he whispers. “I can feel you squeezing me.” You want to throw up.

“Fuck. You.” you hiss.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

And with that, he’s _brutally_ hammering his hips into yours, his belt buckle clinking as he moves. He’s plunging deep, bottoming out in such a way that you swear you can feel him in your chest.

Your traitor cunt greedily clutches at his pistoning cock as he repeatedly slams into your g-spot. “No…” you whimper. You’re not sure if the word is directed at him or yourself, maybe both.

You try to mentally extinguish the building fire, your mind warring with your body’s betrayal, but you’re quickly losing the battle and it only takes two more savage thrusts before you’re coming.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, “Knew ya had it in you.”

He continues to jack-hammer into you, into your convulsing walls. Your orgasm is strong but short, the shame of it all quickly yanking you back down to earth.

“Want me to come inside you?” he pants. “Fuck a baby into you?” he clips a laugh, “Wouldn’t that be fun - a hunter carrying a shapeshifter inside her.”

“N-no!” you squeal. You’re on the pill, but the threat is still there. “Please,” you beg, “Please d - ah!” You can hardly get the words out with the way he’s violently thrusting into you. “Please - oh god - please - _don’t!”_

But then with a choked cry, his muscled body goes tense and you can feel him swell, can feel his cock jerking and pulsing, pumping sickening wet heat into you.

“Oh, fuuuuck,” he moans into the crook of your damp neck. “Shit...that was amazing…thanks, I needed that.”

You’re openly sobbing; defeated.

“Shh-sh-shh.” He’s stroking your hair in a false display of comfort. And then the arm hooked around your throat begins to tighten and you jerk back, but he’s locked inside and around you - there’s nowhere to go.

Dark spots start to blot your vision as he constricts his arm and you actually feel a small blip of peace as your world fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here, thanks for bearing with me - I promise the guys are on their way!


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still some non-com elements in this chapter, so please remember to mind the warnings.

A light slapping against your cheek rouses you, causing you to blink to full consciousness, your lashes clinging together with dried tears.

Dean’s blurry face comes into view and for a moment your heart _leaps_ \- But the tight, twisted smile on his face reminds you that this isn’t your Dean.

You groan. There’s a dull, constant ache between your legs and your face screws up in a silent sob at the recollection of the cause.

The shifter is leaning down to level his eyes with yours, bent at the waist and bracing both hands on his thighs, just above the knees. An overwhelming urge to punch him in the face washes over you - but when you try to move your arm, you find that it doesn’t budge. A quick glance down reveals why - your wrists and ankles are tightly secured to the old wooden chair.

You’re relieved to find your jeans back on, but you can feel the tacky remains of your attack pooled in your panties.

“Mornin’ sunshine!” You turn your head. You can’t look at him.

The early morning light casts a blue-grey glow behind the blinds of the kitchen windows. _How long have you been out?_

“I’d cook ya some breakfast, but I really need to be going soon. Besides, you’re a little tied up right now.” You bring your head back, glaring daggers as he snickers at his own lame, twisted joke.

You narrow your eyes, “Just kill me, and stop wasting my fucking time.”

His lips curl in a dark smirk as he rises to his full height, “You really need to learn some patience, babydoll.”

A glimpse of twinkling steel pulls your gaze to a small curved knife clutched in his fist. You inhale sharply, new fear settling deep into your chest.

He grins at your reaction, “Aw c’mon now…you were gonna use a blade on me. S’only fair isn’t it?”

You swallow thickly, raising your eyes to his. You try to keep them steady, but your mask is quickly faltering with the crescendoing fear building inside. He cocks his head to the side, “Unless, of course, you wanna go for a second round?” Your stomach ripples in disgust.

“No? Alright then. Let’s get started.”

He circles behind you, lightly dragging the sharpened weapon across your arm as he goes. He doesn’t break the skin, just acquaints you with its presence as he rounds you.

Scratchy lips find your ear as he trails his free hand over your shoulder and past your collarbone to roughly fondle a breast. You squeeze your eyes shut, releasing a closed-lipped yelp as he gropes you. “Hmm,” he muses, “I haven’t gotten to see these yet.” You whimper as he gathers up the front collar of your t-shirt and then loud ripping sound fills your ears as he cuts through the fabric.

You hold your breath as he works, stiffening your body to prevent him from nicking your skin.

You open your eyes just in time to see the final bottom inch of your shirt sliced away. The knife is absent as the shifter brings two big hands down to sweep the shredded material to each side of your chest so he can palm you through your bra.

You feels so sick, so fucking used as he touches you, that you almost wish he’d just get straight to using the blade.

“Please stop…” you whisper in to the quiet of the room. But then he dips his fingers underneath the cups to tweak your nipples.

“Now, when has that word ever done anything for you?” You don’t answer him, closing your eyes again and pressing your lips into a thin line as he continues to toy with you.

There’s a sliver of relief when he removes his fingers, but it’s short-lived as the shifter leans further over you, peeling back a cup to capture a nipple into his hot mouth. You whimper softly as he steadily swirls his tongue around the bud, giving it one last flick before moving on to the other. He releases you with a wet smack, humming as he pulls away to give your breasts a final squeeze. You’re surprised yet relieved when he adjusts your bra back into place.

“Damn, I’m gettin’ hard again,” he groans. Your eyes pop open at that and you stiffen.

 _No - oh god, no_.

“Oh, don’t worry sugar,” he assures you. “I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.” You snort through your nose, grimly smirking at the statement as he shuffles back around to your front.

“Now,” he starts, brandishing the again-present knife. “Where should we begin? Any preferences?” You stay silent, directing your unfocused gaze to ghost straight through him.

“No? How ‘bout here?”

He leans down to brace an arm against the back of the chair. You wince at the sensation of cold steel firmly pressing just above the swell of your left breast, gasping when you feel the flesh give, and groaning at the slow, white-hot drag of the blade as it draws a bloodied horizontal line across your chest. You’re panting by the time he withdraws the blade, and then there’s a sickening wet warmth trickling down to stain your bra.

“Looks so pretty, baby,” the shifter mutters. You tense when you feel the cut above your opposite breast, gritting your teeth as the monster carves his mark into you.

He brings the crimson-tipped blade to your left arm now, just under the hem of your sleeve. You suck in air just as he flicks his wrist. The cuts aren’t terribly deep, but _god_ are they painful; thin, searing stripes streaking across your smooth flesh.

The shifter talks as he works, muttering warped-sweet-nothings as he lacerates your skin,

“You bleed so good, honey…I should take a picture…How’s it feel?…Yeah, groan some more, make noises for me, baby.”

You don’t know how much time has gone by or how many cuts now cover your arms and chest, but warm light leaks through the closed blinds, the sunny spring day outside oblivious to the nightmare currently occurring inside the quaint old house.

Salty sweat mingles with the running rivulets of blood traveling down your body, amplifying the sting of your wounds. Your body trembles, mind dizzying with the effort of absorbing all the pain. You soon find yourself praying that he’ll cut a little deeper, allow the blood to drain more freely so you can black out; escape this living hell.

The shifter suddenly pulls away, straightening upright. His head is cocked, like he’s listening for something. His eyes widen and then his face is crowding into yours. He brings his index finger to his pursed lips in a shushing gesture before straightening again. His head swivels left and right.

_He’s looking for an escape._

And just then, there’s a _thundering_ crash coming from the front of the house. The shifter _whirls_ around behind you, and then you’re being _yanked_ backwards, tilting on the back legs of the chair as the knife presses firmly against your throat.

Two pairs of heavy boots come thumping into the kitchen - and stop. You can barely see them with the way you’re craned back, but Sam and Dean are here, guns drawn and eyes impossibly wide at the sight before them.

But you’re not rejoicing yet, not when you’re still in your captor’s clutches, sharp steel nudging at your jugular. You jerk against the blade at the sudden sound of the shifter’s booming voice.

“Hiya fellas!”


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic description of gore and violence. You've been warned.

“You took my face, you goddamned son of a bitch?!” Dean’s face is steeled, eyebrows sharply arched in unadulterated fury.

“Oh yeah,” the shifter confirms, “She opened the door right up for me.” The thing’s voice is level with the back of your neck, and you realize he must be crouched behind you.

_He’s using you a human shield, the fucking coward._

Sam’s face mirrors Dean’s and you can see him mentally calculating their next move.

“Brilliant idea,” Dean says lowly, “Bringing a steak knife to a gunfight.”

“Yeah, well…” the shifter counters, “You don’t have a clear shot…and if you take one more step, I’m gonna drain the bitch right here.”

Sam makes eye contact with you during the exchange. You’re still struggling to see him at this angle, but you can see him dramatically jerking his head back. You look at him quizzically, but when he dips his head toward you, you understand: He’s instructing you to throw your weight back. The shifter is in a squatting position, the move will likely throw him off balance.

Sam and Dean exchange glances, lowering their weapons and taking a synchronized step back. Taking that as your cue, you lift your hips, using your upper body to _surge_ backwards - it works. The knife nicks your jaw in the process, but the shifter is toppling to the floor, bringing you and the chair with him. He scrambles to regain his hold on you, but the hunters are already on him.

Dean bends down to yank the chair upright, deftly freeing you from your bonds while Sam lunges at the unsteadily-rising shifter, the struggle sending both bulking bodies hurtling into the wall, and you cringe at the sound of cracking plaster. _There’s another repair._

Dean’s close proximity reminds you of your open and tattered shirt, but you don’t have time to worry about your modesty.

“Go!” Dean barks as he jerks away the last of the rope. You start to run (well, _attempt_ to run) for the discarded silver blade in the sink, but your legs are stiff from nonuse and you immediately flop forward, your hands flying out to brace your fall. The slap of linoleum stings against the open wounds on your chest, and you groan into the cold floor.

The small kitchen fills with the scuffling sounds of male grunts and rasping boots and when you turn around, fisting the retrieved blade, you’re shocked to find the hunters heaving Dean’s doppleganger by the arms into your previously occupied chair, where they proceed to bind him, just as you had been only minutes before.

“What?” you mutter more to yourself than anyone else in the room. They have guns, no doubt loaded with silver bullets - _why aren’t they shooting him?_

“ _Pathetic_ ,” the shifter sneers. “You have to tie me _down_ to get a shot.”

“Oh,” Dean’s voice is low. “You think we’re gonna shoot you…”

Both men have their backs to you, but you can hear the malice in the eldest brother’s voice. He bends down to level his eyes with the creature.

“You think you deserve _mercy_?”

Sam shifts his weight; he’s nervous.

“Dean?” your voice is small. “Dean - _shit_ , just fucking _shoot_ him!” He throws his arm back toward you, index finger lifted in a silencing gesture. You swallow. You want to approach, you feel so out of place this far away - but your feet are glued to their spot on the floor.

“How many girls have you killed? Hmm?” _Jesus_ , his voice is so frightening, even more so than the shifter’s. “How many have you tortured for your own sick pleasure?”

Theres a sliver of space between the hunters, and you can just make out the thing’s slow, wolfish grin. “She came you know.” The creature taunts, “ _twice_.”

The crunch of Dean’s fist against his double’s face is nauseating, and you know something has broken, but the creature laughs. It’s an airy, gasping chuckle, but a laugh all the same.

Dean steps away, shaking his surely throbbing hand as he removes his navy over-shirt, giving you a clear view of your captor, your attacker, your rapist.

Your stomach turns as you take in his bloody, caved cheekbone. The beginnings of a bruise start to shade the skin around his eye, yet he’s still fucking _smiling_. And he _winks_ at you with his good eye just as Dean returns to his place.

“What about you, Sammy?” The thing smirks. “You wanna take a shot too?”

The young Winchester huffs a clipped laugh, “Nah. You’re Dean’s.”

“No,” Dean corrects. “Your last vict - you’re _survivor_ is gonna be the one to end you…but I’m gonna have some fun first.”

Sam’s head briefly snaps toward his brother’s. His face is drawn - he isn’t liking this, but something tells you he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

Your clammy fist anxiously tightens around the hilt of your blade as Dean reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a knife - oh god. _The_ knife. The shifter’s knife.

He twirls it in his hand, the steel glittering in the natural light of the room. “Have you ever seen a live, beating heart…outside the body?” Dean’s looking at the weapon as he speaks, like he’s questioning the bloodied instrument instead of its owner.

Your blood freezes. _Is he going to - oh **GOD**_.

“Dean-” Sam warns. “I haven’t,” Dean continues, turning the blade in his fingers, “but I’ve always wanted to.” The grin on the shifter’s face has collapsed, the first traces of fear glinting in its eyes.

“It’d be so warm in my hand…” He cups his free hand to mirror his words. “And I’d just watch it pump, pump..pump..pump…pump…pump…until it stopped completely.”

“Dean…” Sam’s voice is a whisper. “Wouldn’t ya wanna see that?” Dean murmurs into the thick silence of the room. The creature’s throat bobs as it swallows.

“And wouldn’t it be the fucking _coolest_ if it was your own heart?” The excitement in his voice is beyond terrifying.

“Dean!” Sam snaps. “We don’t have time for this!” The volume of his voice rises as he swings an open palm toward your frozen form. “We gotta get her to a hospital-”

“C’mon Sammy - Don’t you want this motherfucker to pay? To suffer?!”

“Well - yeah, but we’re not gonna cut his fuckin’ heart out!”

“Why not?” _Jesus_. Dean sounds genuinely confused at why Sam wouldn’t want to do such a grotesque thing.

Dean sighs. “Fine.” He directs his attention back to the shifter. “Y’know, you should really _thank_ my baby brother. This could have gotten really messy for you.”

“Eat me,” it grits. You almost laugh at how backwards this all is. How many times have you heard Dean say that to a monster trying to gank _him_?

“Good one,” Dean quips. He steps forward then, bending down to fist the collar of the creature’s grey t-shirt before tearing through the material with the same knife that had destroyed your own. He pushes the hanging fabric aside when he’s finished and you can’t stop the twitch of satisfaction in your gut at the karma unfolding in front of you.

“This is kinda weird,” the hunter laughs to no one in particular. “I’m about to cut myself.” The shifter’s chest heaves in anticipation, but he doesn’t utter a sound.

“Now,” Dean mutters, “Where to start…” He leans forward - and turns his head back toward you. “Where’d he start on you, sweetheart?” You gulp, silently pointing to the gashes on your chest. His face hardens as turns back to his clone. He doesn't move for several seconds, but then he’s curling his arm and slashing with a _powerful_ jerk, drawing a deep gash right through the middle of its chest.

It’s one thing to have this happen to you, but entirely another to watch someone’s flesh part for a blade like a knife through butter. The shifter _growls_ through clenched teeth at what you know from experience is _scorching_ pain. Blood oozes from the wound in thick trails, dripping in crooked streams down over its stomach.

You barely catch it, but the shifter stiffens and you can hear the creak of the chair as the thing pushes back, attempting to replicate your previous escape.

“Sam!” and then the giant hunter is whirling around behind, slamming two big hands on the backrest to steady the chair.

“That wasn’t too smart.” Dean chides.

And then, for good measure, he’s burying the knife into the creature’s hand. Your ears fill with the sickening squelch of sharpened steel cutting through tendon, flesh and meat. The shifter _roars_ in agony, his arm jerking and spasming in shock.

You pull your gaze from the torture scene in front of you to Sam’s face. His eyes are closed, jaw ticked as his white-knuckles the back of the chair. He doesn’t want to see this anymore than you do.

You have a crystal clear view of the shifter now and Dean wastes no time in getting back to work. He jerks the blade out of his double’s limp hand, rearing back to slice a second gash in its chest, just below the first. Fresh blood gushes from the open flesh, cascading down to join the mess of drying crimson staining his abs.

The thing is making gasping, choking sounds; his body twitches. Dean throws a glance at you, his eyes sweeping over your scabbing shoulders and upper arms. “You messed up her arms pretty good,” he notes as he swivels back to face his bloodied captive. He steps to the side to roll up the sleeve of the shifter’s shredded shirt.

You slam your eyes closed and cover your ears, but you can still hear the nauseating, meaty thump of the blade tearing through flesh and muscle. When the sound finally stops after several terrible minutes, you open your eyes. And your hand flies to your mouth, not sure if you’re going to scream or vomit.

The flesh hangs off the shifter’s arms in thick ribbons. It’s a ghastly pale as the blood rapidly drains from its massive body. Dean turns to you, his neck and hands thinly splattered in a deep red mist.

“I - is it dying?” you croak.

“No,” Sam whispers from behind the carnage. “It still needs silver to the heart.”

Dean reaches behind him, retrieving his gun from the waistband of his jeans, trading you his weapon for your blade. “This is your kill, kiddo.” He smiles a sad smile. “Take it.”

At Dean’s nod, Sam shuffles around bloodied mess of flesh to join his brother behind you. The shifter heaves with shallow, rapid breaths as it locks colorless eyes with you. You raise the gun with shaking arms, aiming at the chest.

“I told you, you don’t know who you’re fucking with. Freak.”

And then you fire four shots into its heart.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapters...they'll hopefully get longer as they go on.

The gun hangs loosely at your side as you gaze at the slumped, bloodied remainder of the shapeshifter in your kitchen chair. It seems like an hour passes before Dean approaches, gently taking the weapon from you as he rounds to stand at your front. Your tired eyes flick to his as he cups your jaw, tilting your head back.

“Hey,” he whispers, “you’re safe-”

You jerk away from him, take two long strides back, pulling your vest of shirt together to cross your arms over it. “What the hell is _wrong_ with you?!” You’re looking at him in absolute horror.

His hands hang in the air where you left them and his brow creases, lips parting in confusion. “I - what?” “You -” Your eyes get stuck on the drying blood splattered across his neck, “you _butchered_ the thing!” you shout.

He looks at you like you’ve lost your damned mind, shakes his head, “I - I don’t…”

“You could have just shot it - that’d be the end of it, but you - you had to _play_ with it!” Sam’s behind you now, a big, comforting hand on your back.

“I _had_ to make it suffer - I wasn’t gonna give it a quick, easy death…” he looks away, his voice softening. “It didn’t deserve that.”

Now it’s your turn to shake your head, closing your eyes as you scoff, “You _enjoyed_ it, Dean.” Your voice lowers, almost into a growl. “You’re just as much of monster as it was.”

His eyes dart back to yours, clouding in anger. “What do you want me to say, huh? Yeah - _yes_ , I enjoyed it. I _enjoyed_ torturing the monster that hurt you!”

“Hey -” Sam’s velvet voice interjects, “We need to get this thing outta here, before it starts to stink.” Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth in an attempt to sooth his shattered nerves before dropping his hand, visibly cringing at the sight of you; hair tangled, chest and arms crusted with coagulated blood.

“We gotta get her to a hospital first,” he mumbles.

“No,” you say. “No hospitals.”

“What - why?”

“I just don’t want to, Dean.”

“You could get an infect-”

“No!” And with that, you’re marching around him, heading for the bathroom.

Dean’s hot on your tail, “Where are you going?”

“To clean myself up!” And then you’re slamming the door in his face.

“Just leave her alone,” you hear Sam’s soft, muted voice.

You glare at the mirror. _Hospitals_. That’s the last thing you need - hours upon hours of doctors and nurses poking and prodding, asking questions you don’t want to answer. You _can’t_ answer.

_-Yeah, a shapeshifter raped me and then used me as a cutting board._

_-A what?_

_-A shapeshifter - you know, those creatures that can morph into any shape they want and then shed their skin when they’re done?_

Yeah. And then come the men in white coats.

You hear the boys’ disconnected, muffled voices in the distance as you gaze at your pallid reflection.

“…some time….space….through a lot…be alone…”

Dammit. You can’t listen to this.

You swing the door open, swiftly padding back into the kitchen where the brothers are bundling up bloodstained rope. They stop, faces solemn as they take in your dazed and exhausted form. Anger builds in your lower belly at the pity in their eyes.

“I’m gonna take a shower…” you say blankly. There’s no response as you turn away, but you can feel twin gazes burning into your back as you go.

The trek up the stairs is surreal; last time you were up here, your life was relatively normal. You weren’t covered in blood and sweat. Your body wasn’t in constant, screaming pain.

You avoid your reflection as you undress, instead focusing on bagging up your torn and stained clothes. You’ll burn them, you think.

The lukewarm water stings terribly, but you welcome the pain; it distracts you from the flashbacks dancing at the back of your brain. You watch as the soap slides down your broken skin in pearly-foamy trails; down your legs and ankles to the wet floor of the tub, where it mixes with the water to swirl down the drain. You don’t know how long you stand there, under the firm, cascading spray, but eventually the water turns cold.

It’s quiet when you turn off the faucet. Too quiet.

You turn to the mirror after patting yourself dry; the cuts are angry-looking welts, but thankfully not too deep - you’ll just need to keep them clean and you should be fine - but it isn’t the physical injuries that concern you - it’s your empty, hollow eyes staring back at you.

You flick the light off before turning down the hall to your bedroom; the sheets are still tangled on your bed from the night before - Oh. And there’s your phone on the nightstand. You perch on the side of your bed as you tenderly pick it up, flipping it open:

16 missed calls and 32 missed texts. 8 voicemails. You open your texts, they’re all from Dean:

**1:18 a.m *Hunting a shifter here in town - got the jump on us, we’re fine but it might be headed ur way. Be on the lookout**

**1:25 a.m *r u up? Shit, I wish you’d answer me**

**1:32 a.m *ANSWER UR PHONE**

**1:40 a.m *Fuck, kid. Please answer**

**1:55 a.m BABY IS GONE - IF MY CAR SHOWS UP DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR**

You snap the phone closed, shoving it underneath a pillow. You can’t read anymore.

If only you’d taken your phone with you…

_How the hell are you going to get through this?_

**********

Fully dressed again, you make your way back to the kitchen to find the brothers - and the body - gone. Like they’d never even been here, chairs neatly pushed in under the table, floor clean - void of any red substances.

You dart to the front door, pulling it open - your driveway is empty, the impala missing. You know where they are, what they’re doing. You don’t even care how they dispose of the body, you’re just thankful it’s gone. Just as you’re about to back up and close the door, you see the sleek muscle car slowly rumbling up the concrete drive. You step down onto the porch as the car rolls to a stop, the old metal doors creaking as they open. You fold your arms over your chest as the tall hunters emerge, the doors slamming shut one after the other.

“It’s done?” you ask as they approach.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “It’s done.”

“Well, thank you,” you nod, flicking your eyes to Sam. “For everything.” You look back at Dean, squinting at the bright morning light. “I’m sorry I freaked earlier…I’ve just - I’ve been through a lot the last few hours…It’s all been kinda intense.”

Dean’s face is tight; pained. There’s a long pause. “No,” his voice cracks. “ _I’m_ sorry. If I’d just been smarter - ”

The corner of your mouth curls in a bleak smile, “Stop. It’s not your fault…Besides, you saved my life.” Your eyes dart between them. “You both did. So thank you.”

Sam steps closer, smiling through a grimace. “You can’t stay here…come with us.” Dean briefly glances at his brother before nodding, turning back to you.

“Where?” you ask.

“Uh, we got a cabin…in Colorado,” Dean explains.

“So...you’re squatting.”

“Well, kinda…sorta…not really,” Sam smiles. You raise an eyebrow.

He huffs a chuckle before elaborating, “Couple a months ago, we took care of a poltergeist for this little old lady in Tucson. Said she owns a cabin up in Colorado that the family never really uses anymore…said we’re free to use anytime,” he shrugs. “S’long as we clean up after ourselves.”

“Wow,” you manage a genuine smile. “Not bad, boys.”

“So you’ll come with us?” Dean asks with wide, hopeful eyes. You press your lips together, tilt your head, “I dunno…I mean, I’ve got this house to take care of. Got repairs to make,” you glare at Sam, “like the massive crack in my kitchen wall…” The baby-faced hunter bashfully grins at his shoes.

“Besides,” you continue, “I don’t know that it’s such a good idea…you know…” You wiggle a finger between you and Dean, struggling to find the right words, “for us to be…” You swallow. “…ya know?” Dean closes his eyes, dips his head. You can see his jaw clench under the skin.

“I’m sorry, I just…” He doesn’t look up, just painfully nods his understanding.

Sam’s eyes jump between the two of you, he sighs. “Can - can I say something?”

“Of course,” you nod.

“I know you’ve been through a lot…I can’t even _begin_ to imagine…but you can’t do this alone.” You chew the corner of your mouth as you wait for him to continue. He throws a glance at his brother.

“Dean didn’t do this. You know it, I know it, he knows it…Pushing him away - pushing _us_ away…that isn’t gonna help you heal. Hell, it’s gonna do the exact opposite.”

You rake a hand through your hair, gathering it at the back of your scalp as you take in his words.

“I just,” he continues. “I just think it’s a really bad idea for you to stay here…in this house - alone.”

Dean shoves his hands in his pockets, he still hasn’t looked up. Sam’s mouth curves in a sad smile. “I know this is gonna take time - a lot of it, but let us help you. Please.”

You stare at the concrete as you process his advice. He’s right. _Goddammit_. He’s fucking right - you can’t stay here, in this old museum of painful memories. You’ll lose your mind.

It’s gonna be tough for sure, but you need them. They saved your life, now you need them to save your soul. And you’re not the only one who needs to heal. They need your help too. Dean needs your help.

You smile tightly, “Gimme ten minutes to pack my things.”


	6. Chapter 5

You sleep for the first few hours of the roadtrip. It had only taken about five minutes for the deep, vibrating rumble of the engine to lull you to a peaceful slumber.

“Wake up, kiddo.” The voice is full; warm. A heavy hand on your shoulder is gently rocking you to consciousness. You blink, blearily peering up at your rouser from underneath heavy lids. Dean is twisted in the driver’s seat, head wrenched around the backrest to smile down at you. Your cheek sticks to the warm leather as you lift your head, your scabs pulling painfully against your arms and chest as you push yourself up to a sitting position.

“Have a nice nap?”

“Yeah,” your voice is hoarse from sleep. You lean forward to squint through the windshield at the glaring midday sun; you’re stopped at a gas station, the towering Phillips 66 sign towering just ahead.

“Where are we?” you croak, bringing a hand back to rub at your stiff neck.

“New Mexico,” he tosses back.

You make a face. “How long was I out?”

He pulls his hand way to drape over the bench seat. “Four hours.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise.“Holy shit,” you breathe. Dean gives you a soft smile, “You needed it,” he says. You briefly return the smile before your face contorts at the realization that the passenger’s seat is empty.

“Where’s Sam?” Your stomach drops a little. The last time you directed this question to someone with Dean’s face, it ended badly. Very badly.

“Takin’ a leak. You need to go?” Your bladder awakens, seemingly on cue.

“Yeah.” You turn to open the door when Dean stops you. “Here,” he says, holding a twenty-dollar bill between his index and middle fingers, “get some snacks, we still got a long haul ahead of us.”

“Dude. Thanks, but I have cash you know.” Dean rolls his eyes, “Buy dinner then.” He jerks the money toward you.

You smile, slipping the cash from him. “Thanks.”

**********

Gas station bathrooms are always disgusting, but you get the job done. You check your wounds in the grimy mirror over the sink after washing your hands, rolling up your short sleeves to the shoulders to inspect your ams; they’re still red, still inflamed, but you can tell they’re already healing. You pull the hem of your shirt up and over your bra. The twin gashes above your breasts are a little deeper, the skin raised around the scabs, but they’re healing. You adjust your shirt and comb your fingers through your sleep-mussed hair before striding out the door.

You slowly stroll up and down the isles of scrumptious looking junk food. You can’t even remember the last time you’d eaten. It was definitely before - No, you’re not going there. This is a new chapter - you’re moving forward. Instead, you focus your thoughts on the present - none of you had discussed the time frame for this…you aren’t sure what to call it. Vacation? And what would you be doing? Surely not hunting. Not you anyway, it’ll be a good while before you can even think of jumping back in the game.

After deciding on your purchase, you quickly pay for your sugar-and-sodium infused items before making your way back to the car.

Dean’s leaning out the window as you approach the impala. “You got shotgun, kid.” You round the front, collapsing into Sam’s usual seat, and twisting around. The shaggy-haired hunter is sprawled out along the backseat, pillow bunched up behind his head, arms crossed across his chest. His eyes are closed.

“Is he asleep?” you whisper to Dean.

“Gimme five and I will be,” Sam grumbles, eliciting a candid grin to spread across your face.

“Bitch,” Dean mumbles as he starts the engine.

“I heard that…jerk.”

**********

Dean lightly drums his fingers against the steering wheel as a classic rock station plays low on the radio. There’s a thickness in the air between you, friendly conversation-starters sticking in your throat.

_Weather’s nice outside._

_So, how’ve you been? Last night was pretty horrific, huh?_

_Any good hunts lately?_

There’s no formula of words that’s going to _not_ be awkward in this situation. So instead, you curl yourself against the door, leaning your head against the sun-warmed glass of the window, and watch the trees and street signs blur past.

“You okay?” Your startled jump alerts you to the fact that you’re on the brink of another nap.

“Oh - sorry. Were you asleep?”

You roll back to sit upright. “No, not really. Just starting to doze off I guess.”

“Sorry,” he says again. “Thought you were sick or somethin’.” You lazily blink at him, shaking your head.

“But you’re okay?” You smile grimly to yourself. _Define okay._

“Yeah. I’m good.”

“Good.” Yeah, this isn’t gonna be awkward at all.

You rake a hand through your hair, “How are you? Y’know…after everything.”

His jaw tenses, eyes trained on the road ahead. “I’m uh-” he clears his throat and shrugs. You nod; you won’t press for more, he needs time too.

You lick your lips, “So I never asked…where, in Colorado, are we staying?”

“Trinidad.” “Cool,” you nod. “Been there before?”

“No, no not yet.” Another nod.

Several agonizing minutes of silence later, you can’t stand it anymore. “I just-” you sigh, rolling your head toward him. “I just want to make this…not weird.”

He tosses a nervous glance at you. “Weird?” His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “This isn’t weird…is it?”

You give him a sheepish smile. “Kinda?”

He sighs, directing his eyes back ahead. “I just don’t want to push anything on you, okay? I mean - if you wanna talk, I’m here to listen. Always. But if you’re not ready for that then…I dunno. I guess I don’t really know how to read you.”

You press your lips together as you form your response. “I just want to put last night behind me. Behind _us_. Can we just…forget it never happened?”

There’s a long pause as you wait for him to consider your suggestion, his mouth twitching in thought. “I dunno if that’s possible,” he says, finally. He snorts to himself. “I know I’m one to talk - shit, that’s how _I_ cope…but this?” He turns pained green eyes toward you, “How can you forget something like this?” His voice mirrors his tortured expression, dropping to a barely audible whisper.

He rights his gaze before you have the chance to answer and the genuine sorrow in his voice makes your chest ache. “I dunno,” you whisper back, eyes glued to your lap, “but I have to try.”

He reaches over, taking your hand in his to give it a warm, gentle squeeze. “Anything you need, kiddo.” He smiles softly. “You got it.”

**********

The rest of the ride is pleasant; exchanging mindless banter of movies, rock albums, and favorite childhood memories. Dean even has you bent over in actual laughter at a story about one of his and Sam’s childish prank wars. You have both hands over your mouth to stifle the noise so you don’t wake the slumbering hunter in the backseat. “You’re such a _dick_ ,” you whisper-wheeze as Dean absolutely _beams_ at the memory. “Poor Sam.”

Late afternoon fades into dusk as you reach Trinidad. Sam has been awake for the last couple of hours, immediately grumbling for food and coffee as he’d leaned hunched and wild-haired over the front seat.

Downtown Trinidad is charming, its main street lined with early century era buildings consisting of shops, restaurants, and hotels. Tree covered mountains loom on the darkening horizon. Sam directs Dean down the unfamiliar streets from the backseat while you marvel at the peaceful surroundings.

Finally, Dean turns onto the dusty trail leading to the cabin, the rustic wooden structure illuminated by the beaming headlights.

The exterior of the building is impressive all together; it’s vast in width, with thick, carved columns adorning the entrance to the broad front door. You take note of the spacious porch - how it extends long to the left of the entrance, continuing to wrap around the side. You can easily picture yourself spending quiet mornings out here, sipping coffee while you gaze out at the tranquil mountainous scenery.

“Alright,” Dean says as turns off the ignition. “Everybody out.”

There’s a collective groan from the three of you as you exit the car. Your legs are painfully stiff from the long car ride, and you all have to take a minute to stretch them out. The brothers round the car to gather bags and suitcases out of the trunk while you amble toward the front steps. You run your hands along the smooth wood of the columns as you walk toward the door, breathing in a lungful of the cool, dry air.

Sam and Dean soon join you, lugging baggage up the wooden steps. “Oh shit - sorry, let me help you,” you apologize as you go to relieve some of the weight.

Dean bats your hands away, “We got it, kiddo.” He fishes the key out of his pocket, tossing it to you. “Here, you do us the honor.”

You gasp when you step inside; the place is practically a moutainside palace - rock pillars grace the spotless stone floor on either side of the wooden entryway. Two grey sofas sit opposite each other, underneath curtainless windows. Ahead, stone meets polished wood steps that lead to the living area where an L-shaped sofa sits in front of a coal stove.

“Damn,” the brothers chorus behind you. You laugh, “Yeah, damn…and they say hunting doesn’t pay.” You throw them both a playful wink.

“Okay, I say let’s bring the rest of this shit in and crash,” Dean says. “I’m fuckin’ drained.”

**********

When the car is emptied and the bedrooms claimed, the three of you sit at the kitchen table relaxing over a pre-bed drink. Sam had offered you a beer, but you’d politely declined, instead opting for a soda.

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to drink beer again.

“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” you ask. Sam huffs a laugh, “Plan?” He glances at his brother. Dean’s lips curl in a half-smirk. “The plan is there is no plan. We’re not hunting, so we go to bed when we want, get up when we want, and then do whatever the fuck we want. Plain and simple.”

You smile softly as you trace the rim of your soda bottle with your thumb. “Works for me.”

“We should probably go to town tomorrow to pick up food for the kitchen.” Sam suggests. “Dean’s a hell of a cook.” The eldest Winchester smirks at his beer, side-eyeing his brother. “Fuckin’ right I am.”

You giggle at their banter before a sudden yawn reminds you that you need sleep. “Alright boys, I’m out.” You stand to round the table, giving each brother a brief hug.

After muttering your goodnights, you head to your temporary bedroom, toeing off your shoes, not bothering to change clothes as you flop onto the bed, exhausted. You flip your phone open to check the time.

1:15 a.m. You ignore the shiver that runs through you, you’re just chilly. You’re fine, you tell yourself as you burrow under the quilt.

You’re just fine.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Non-con in the form of a nightmare in this chapter.

The wooden creak of a door opening wakes you, followed by the rasp of a heavy boot against the floor. The dull light from the hall casts a dark shadow over the stationary, looming silhouette in the doorway. You raise up on your elbows.

“Dean?” you croak. He takes a step forward.

“Yeah - it’s me, baby.”

Wait. _Baby?_

You scramble to thumb your lamp on and-

your blood freezes.

The shifter stands over you, the dull lamplight illuminating the figure in a ghastly mass of mangled flesh and blood.

“No - _no!”_ you screech. You _launch_ yourself toward the the foot of the bed in a frantic attempt to escape, but a big hand roughly encircles your throat, heaving you to your back on the mattress. You slap your hands around the thick wrist at your throat, desperately tugging at it as the blood begins to pound in your head.

The thing throws a heavy leg over your waist, straddling you as he pushes more weight into your windpipe. Just before you lose consciousness, the hand releases you to pin both of your wrists beside your head, leaning down to crowd its face into yours.

“Did ya miss me, sugar?” The shifter licks at the column of your throat as you sob. You can feel warm blood seeping into your shirt. “I missed you…”

“Please stop…” you whisper as scratchy lips mouth along your jaw.

It pulls away to murmur against your lips, “That wasn’t a very nice thing you did, ya know…Shooting me like that. I think that deserves a punishment.”

“SAM!! DE-” Your screams for help are silenced when a hand releases a wrist to slam a palm over your mouth.

“Shh…they can’t help you now. They’re on the floor, lookin’ a little like me,” the shifter chuckles darkly.

A fresh wave of hot tears spill from your eyes to collect at the fingers sealed over your mouth and a hot tongue licks at the salty trails, “Shh…it’s okay, baby. I just wanna have a little more fun with you before I cut your pretty heart out.” It huffs a laugh, “S’too bad I killed Dean first…he coulda watched. Think he would’ve appreciated it.” You hiccup into its palm. “C’mon, don’t cry…you remember all the fun we had, don’t you?” You bring your free hand up to push at the hot, sticky-wet of its torn shirt, but you may as well be trying to push a boulder off of you.

It just laughs as it brings the hand away to wrench your jeans open, sliding his fingers down to rub you hard through your panties. Your chest jerks as you sob at the ceiling. Your hands are free now, but you can’t move them, like they’re held down by some invisible force; you’re paralyzed.

You’re helpless as the thing leans back to tug your pants down to your knees, bringing your underwear with them. The shifter bends down to lick a burning stripe up your bare folds and then there’s that sickeningly familiar clinking of an unclasping belt buckle.

“No!” you scream as it lines itself up, “Please, _please_ don’t do this…” Your pleas are answered with silence and then you’re absolutely _howling_ as the shifter painfully pushes in-

_BANG!_

Your eyes snap open to darkness just before the room is flooded in bright light. You heave yourself up, drawing in a quick, shuddering breath of relief.

_It was all just a nightmare._

Sam and Dean are paused at the door, guns drawn. Like a dramatic reenactment of the night before, except this time it isn’t in your kitchen. It’s in a cabin, in another state. Far away from the hell back home.

The brothers drop their weapons, tucking them in the back of their pants when they see you, wet-faced and shaking. The scratchy soreness in your throat tells you that you’ve been screaming through your nightmare - that’s what must’ve woken them.

They’re rushing in now, Dean first. He crowds into you, reaching to pull you into an embrace when fresh panic washes over you.

 _“No!”_ you’re screaming again, “Get _away_ from me!” The logical part of your brain tells you that this is Dean, the real Dean, but it’s the same too-close face that was hovering over you only seconds before, violating you again. You dig your heels into the mattress, surging yourself backwards until your back meets the wooden headboard. You draw your knees up to your chin, bowing your head to rest against them as you continue to shake like a frightened child.

“Dean!” Sam barks behind him, “Go get her a glass of water.” Dean looks lost; confused. “But-”

Sam pushes past his brother, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, shielding you from him. “Go,” the young Winchester’s voice is stern, “get her a glass of water.”

There’s a brief pause, but then you hear Dean shuffling out of the room.

“Hey,” Sam’s velvety voice floats towards you, “it’s okay, you’re safe.” You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes yet, you’re still trembling, nerves jumping all over the place.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper into your jeans. Several seconds pass before you hear Sam’s voice again. “You don’t understand what?”

“Yesterday…I was okay. I spent almost the entire car ride sitting next to him and I was _fine_.” You swallow. “Now, after one little nightmare…I can’t even fucking _look_ at him.”

A scuffing sound alerts you to Dean’s presence. You keep your forehead pressed to your knees as the bed shifts with weight lifting off the mattress. You don’t see them, but you can hear the hushed murmurs at the door, “Go on back to bed, I’ll take care of her,” Sam says.

“I’m not gonna leave her like this!” Dean hisses.

“Dean-” You hear the youngest brother sigh, can almost see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dean, think about it. _You_ can’t help her right now.”

There’s a pregnant pause and then your body jolts as the door _SLAMS_ , the force of it rattling the windows.

You _erupt_ into tears as you hear the roar of the impala peeling out to fade in the distance. Everything catches up with you at once - your exhaustion, the trauma, and now you’ve pushed Dean away. The man who means _everything_ to you. This getaway was supposed to be healing, was supposed to be a fresh start - for all of you, but it seems to be doing just the opposite.

You loudly sob into your palms; heartbroken. You don’t stop him when Sam crawls to sit beside you against the headboard, wrapping his arms around you to gently rock you with him. He silently strokes your hair as you sway, letting you weep into his solid chest.

When you’ve cried yourself dry, you continue to lay against him until he hooks a finger under your chin, tipping your head back to meet his hazel eyes. “It’s gonna be okay,” he promises. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You release a shuddering breath. “What about Dean?” you whisper. Sam smiles. “Don’t worry about Dean. He’s coping in his own way.”

You scoff. “And what way is that? Booze and violence?” You both know where he’s gone. He’ll spend the rest of the night at the nearest bar, and probably _in_ the nearest woman. You hate how your chest seizes in sudden jealousy at the thought.

“I dunno,” Sam mumbles, “maybe, but he’ll come around. He always does.”

“And what if he doesn’t?” you counter. “What if he doesn’t come back from this?”

What happened to you was horrific, unforgettable; but Dean has been violated too, had not just his identity stolen, but his mind too.

How could you be so selfish?

“He will,” Sam assures you. “Trust me - I know my brother,” he chuckles. You force a smile, but the worry continues to cloud your mind.

“Think you can go back to sleep?”

“I dunno, I mean - I’m tired, but…” Flashbacks of your nightmare play in your head and you shiver.

“You want me to stay in here with you?” Sam offers. “I can take the floor.”

You shake your head, “No, no. No way. I think I’ll be okay.” He gives you a doubtful look and you manage a tiny laugh. “Sam - go to bed!”

He smiles back, pulling you against him once more to press a chaste kiss into the top of your head. “Fine, get some sleep okay?”

“Yeah, you too.”

You settle back against the pillow as Sam closes the door behind him. You wait for sleep to reclaim you, praying a silent prayer for Dean to come back in one piece.


	8. Chapter 7

The late morning sun bathes the bedroom in a soft, warm light when you finally peel your tear-swollen eyes open. The rest of your night had been spent in welcomed dreamless sleep. You’d be happy to never dream again if that meant no more nightmares. You roll over to check the time on your phone: 11:30. You groan. You hate sleeping this late, makes you feel like you’ve wasted the day.

The smell of coffee and freshly cooked bacon is what finally pulls you out of bed. You stiffly shuffle to the kitchen where you find Sam at the stove, flipping a delectable looking omelette. A curtain of messy hair shields his eyes as he works and you gently pull out a chair at the table, careful not to startle him. The low scraping of wood on wood pulls his eyes to you.

“Morning,” he smiles.

“Hey,” you rasp back.

“I already ate,” he says, turning back to the skillet, “but figured you could use a heavy breakfast.”

“You’ve already been to the store?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “you were out cold.” You make a breathy sound that resembles a laugh.

You pick at your fingernails. “Is Dean…did he…?”

“He’s in bed,” Sam nods, soft gaze coming back to yours, the corner of his mouth quirked in a sympathetic smile.

“Is he okay?”

Sam shrugs at the stove. I mean, he had a rough night - he was pretty trashed when he got back.” He reaches a long arm across the counter to pick up a paper plate. “He just needs to sleep it off.” Your stomach grumbles as he scrapes the food onto the plate.

“Now,” he says, making his way towards you, “I’m nowhere near as good a cook as my brother…but it’s edible.” You copy his smile as he sets the food in front of you.

“It looks seriously delish, Sam. Thank you.” He nods, almost shyly as he backs away to clear the cookware from the stove. You munch on a strip of bacon as he gathers two mugs, filling each one to the brim with black coffee.

“So,” Sam says, sliding your mug toward you with a low _whuuuur._ “How’d you sleep, you know, after?

You shrug as you slurp a sip of the steaming, bitter liquid. “Good, I guess. No more nightmares at least.”

He nods, “That’s good.” It’s awkward for a moment; no voices, just the sipping of coffee and your closed-lipped munching.

You swallow a mouthful of omelette. “I should apologize to Dean,” you blurt.

Sam knits his brows, “What? What for?”

“Well…it’s my fault he stormed out. If I hadn’t overreacted…” You sigh. “I always fucking do that,” you whisper to yourself.

Sam’s head shakes furiously and he’s looking at you like you’ve just confessed to murder. “No - _kid_ , no.” He pushes his coffee out of the way to lean on his forearms. “That wasn’t because of you. That was…” he takes a deep breath. “That was something that’s been building for a while now.”

You get an elbow on the table, dropping your chin into your palm. Pulling your eyes from Sam, you set your gaze to drift into the empty space in front of you. “He blames himself,” you softly mumble into your palm.

You can feel Sam’s eyes on you. “That’s just his nature - has nothing to do with you…I _really_ need you to understand that.”

“I understand it,” you say, “just wish I could change it.”

A nearby shuffling sound pulls your heads toward the doorway. You lift your chin from your hand as Dean hobbles into the kitchen on stiff legs, heading straight for the coffee pot, the heel of his palm pressed into his forehead. Sam twists his body towards him.

“You all right, dude?”

Dean grunts out a response as the coffee sloshes into his mug.

He looks terrible; hair sticking out in every direction, dried blood caked on one side of his lower lip, and there’s a bluish bruise forming around his left eye. _Yep, booze and violence - that’s the Dean Winchester way._

The banged up hunter flops down into the chair opposite you, eyes fluttering closed as he takes his first sip.

Sam throws a glance at you before setting his gaze on his brother, face splitting into a teasing grin.“Looks like you got your ass handed to ya.”

Dean snorts behind his mug, “Shoulda seen the other guy.”

You share a dramatic eyeroll with Sam. The younger Winchester sniffs at Dean, “You could’ve at least taken a shower. You still smell like skeezy bar.” Dean pulls at his black t-shirt, stretching it in front of him before dipping his head down to take a whiff. He briefly makes a face and then shrugs, releasing the material to continue his morning beverage.

“Sam made a _delicious_ breakfast this morning.” You say to Dean. “A greasy meal’d probably help with the hangover.”

“Nah, I’m good, thanks.” He isn’t looking at you. You drop your eyes to your empty plate. Sam catches your disappointment, runs a heavy hand up and down your forearm.

“She’s right, Dean…You can’t survive on coffee alone.”

“M’not hungry.”

_Dean Winchester isn’t hungry? Okay, something is very wrong._

Dean tips his head back, throat bobbing as he drains the last of the drink. He sets the mug down, pushing back against the chair. “Gonna take a shower,” he grumbles. Sam nods while you fix your eyes on a spot on the table.

You shake your head as he leaves the room, breathing out a humorless laugh. “Great. He’s avoiding me now.” You set your elbows on the table, leaning your forehead against both open palms. “I should’ve never agreed to come,” you groan.

Sam gets his hands around your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. “Stop,” he says. “He’s hungover…and grumpy.” He huffs a laugh, “He never has been a morning person.”

You give him a serious look before scraping your chair back to silently clear your mess. He sighs, standing up to join you. You and Sam work together; you washing the dishes while he wipes down the countertops, stove, and table.

When the kitchen is spotless once again, the two of you lean against the counter side-by-side. Sam’s hands are stuffed deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched while he studies the floor. Your eyes flick over to search his face every few seconds. His lips are parted, twitching like he wants to speak but doesn’t know how. You cross your arms over your chest, your thumbs brushing over the rough, raised scratches streaking through the smooth flesh.

“I’m…gonna take a bath,” you say, finally. “A long one.”

“Kay,” he nods. “I should probably check on my brother.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

**********

Your scabs pull against your skin as you undress, your flesh stretching under the wounds with your movements. There isn’t much change in them from yesterday, but they do look a little less inflamed, less angry.

 You take your phone out as you wait for the tub to fill, your thumb hovering over Dean’s name in your contacts. Your heart wants to text him, to apologize for anything and everything, to ask to start over…but your brain is telling you to cool it - he’s still hungover, probably will be for most of the day, and he’s exhausted. You know from experience that drunk sleep is shit sleep.Your brain wins the debate and you stuff the phone in your duffle before turning to climb into the raised tub.

You hiss as the hot water laps over your wounds, but your muscles instantly relax as you submerge yourself. You close your eyes as you lean back to rest your head and neck against the back slope.

It always hits you when you’re alone. Especially when you’re alone and…naked. You try to squash the thoughts as they begin to form, but you never can, they seem to burrow their way into the deepest pockets of your brain.

You can still hear the thing’s voice ( _no shit. It’s Dean’s voice)._ You can still feel its hands on you, can still hear all the fucked up things it said. And you feel so _ashamed_. Not just shame that it happened, but shame that you _let_ it happen - that you couldn’t stop it.

But the worst shame of all is the memory of your body’s betrayal and how much _twisted_ satisfaction it had brought the monster…like it had won some kind of sick game. In a way, you guess it had.

You slide down the porcelain until your head goes under the water, maybe you can drown the memories this way.

**********

An hour later, you’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, brushing out the wet tangles in your hair. You have to admit that you feel significantly better after your bath - cleaner, more relaxed.

You contemplate hiding out in your room the rest of the day, but you know if you really wanted to be alone, you wouldn’t have come in the first place.

You quietly stroll down the short, narrow hall, coming to a sudden stop when you reach the sitting area. Peering over the back of the sofa, you see Dean; curled in on himself. He’s asleep, his side slowly rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. One arm is hanging off the cushion in front of him while the other is draped across his lower stomach.

Soundlessly, you round the the sofa to sit in the wooden chair by the window, opposite him. You’re lucidly aware at how creepy it is to be watching him sleep like this, but you can’t help it - he looks so boyishly peaceful; calm. You’re a little surprised at how _badly_ you want to run your fingers through his hair, to hold him against you. He is, after all, a carbon copy of your tormentor.

But Dean came first, before the monster. Hell, you’ve been crushing on the guy since the _second_ you met him. So, of course you aren’t going to let that one (albeit _horrific_ ) night change your view of him.

The question is, is it going to change his view of you?

 


	9. Chapter 8

You breathe in the crisp late-afternoon air as you click the door shut behind you. You gotta get out of the house, maybe a long walk will calm your mind.

You round the cabin, cutting through the clearing, heading toward the woods. You’re armed; after all, you _are_ venturing out into unknown territory - there’s no telling what resides in this forest. You don’t anticipate a fight - you’ve researched the area on Sam’s laptop and there’ve been practically zero weird news articles in years - plenty of urban legends, but you’ve decided you’ll make a run for it at any sign of trouble.

The stroll is breathtaking; towering green fir trees line the dirt path, with golden sun rays streaming through the branches. The temperature is perfect and the slight breeze is refreshingly cool against your face, tousling your hair around your head.

The silence is almost eerie out here; the only sounds coming from the occasional chirping bird, rustling trees, and the branches crunching under your feet.

It doesn’t take long for your mind to drift back to Dean. You need to talk to him, but you also know him. When he falls into one of his self-loathing spirals, there’s no pulling him out. Your heart literally aches for the pain dwelling inside him that you can’t even begin to understand.

You go over the conversation in your head, how you’ll start it, various responses to what you _know_ will be guilt-ridden arguments - that is, if he’ll even speak to you at all.

The lowering sun is beginning to cast shadows along the trail; you check the time on your phone - it’s 5 p.m, which means you’ve been walking for over an hour. You slip the phone back into your pocket, turning to trek back to the cabin

**********

The smell of cooked chicken greets you as you open the door. You make your way to the kitchen where the brothers are busying themselves with dinner. Sam tends to the pasta cooking on the stove while Dean is bent over, peering over the lid of the oven door.

“Holy _shit,”_ you blurt, “this smells amazing!” Dean rises to his full height, relaxed smile on his face.

“Chicken Parmesan,” he says, proudly. You return the smile - _Look at that, he’s speaking to you._

Your stomach rumbles; you hadn’t realized how hungry you were.

“Can I help?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, “S’just about ready, you wanna grab us some beer out of the fridge?”

You nod, swinging the heavy door open to collect two beer bottles and a soda for yourself.

The kitchen is quiet except for the sound of ceramic plates clunking against the table and heavy boots thumping across the wood floor.

When the table is set, the three of you take your seats around the steaming dishes. "Go,” Dean grumbles with a flick of both palms toward the food, “dig in.”

Clinking silverware fills the room as you make your plates and then you’re moaning loudly as you take your first bite.

“Oh my gaw,” you groan around a mouthful of chicken. You swallow, “This is fucking awesome.” 

Dean smirks as he chews, throwing his brother a knowing glance. Sam rolls his eyes, nodding in agreement. “It really is, dude - good job.”

The older Winchester smiles until it reaches his eyes, “Thank you.”

Sam looks at you, twirling pasta around his fork. “So, how was your walk?”

“Good,” you nod, “it’s so peaceful out there.”

Dean’s looking at you now. “You didn’t go far did you?”

You almost smile at the parental concern in his voice. “No, I stayed on the path,” you assure him, earning you an approving nod.

“What about you?” you ask. “You look like you feel better.” And he does, his face is brighter - the bruise still shades his eye, but it’s not as dark.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. “That nap did the trick, I think.”

“That’s good,” you mutter.

The rest of dinner is spent exchanging mindless chatter about current events and entertaining stories of past hunts. Dean’s the first to stand, clearing his spot on the table. You follow him to the sink where he turns the faucet on to start the dishes. You crowd into his side, batting his hands away.

“Get away,” your order. “You boys cooked, Imma clean the kitchen. Skedaddle,” You wave him off with the flick of both hands.

“Okay!” he laughs. “Damn, woman.”

You manage to beam a little. You made him laugh.

**********

Half an hour later, the kitchen is clean once again. You find Sam in the sitting room, lounging on the sofa with his laptop.

“Ya know,” you say as you plop down beside him, “the whole point of coming out here is to leave all technology behind. Become one with nature and all that horseshit.”

“Hey!” he laughs, “I see you’ve still got your phone on you-”

“Emergency purposes,” you inform.

He makes a face. “Okay, fair enough - but there isn’t shit to do here at night.”

You cock your head to the side in a mild shrug. “That’s true.” You swivel your head around. “Where’s Dean?”

“I dunno,” Sam mumbles, “think he’s in his room.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. “I should probably try to talk to him.”

The young Winchester closes his computer before turning to you, “Okay…but listen, if he doesn’t wanna talk-”

“I know, I know. I’ll give him space if he needs it.”

Sam flashes you a soft smile. “Good luck,” he offers as you stand.

You huff a half-laugh. “Thanks.”

The door to Dean’s bedroom is open about a foot. He’s leaned up against the headboard, ankles crossed, and head tipped back as he blinks up at the ceiling.

You take a quick breath of courage before rasping two knuckles against the door to signal your arrival. His head pops up and he straightens, gesturing you inside with a wave of his hand.

“Hey,” you breathe as you enter. “Whatcha up to?”

He clears his throat, “Nothin’,” he rumbles. “Just sittin’.” You nod, smiling as you recall your recent conversation with Sam, “Yeah, not much to do at night...”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“Look, I’m just gonna cut right to it. We need to talk.” You hold your breath as you take a seat on the edge of the bed, next to his boots, waiting for his response.

His brows furrow. “About what?”

“You know what.”

“Kid,” he sighs, “I can’t…I don’t know what you want me to-”

“I _want_ you to talk to me!” Dean’ eyes widen at the sudden rise in your voice.

The crease between his brows deepen. “What do you mean? It’s not like I’ve been ignoring you…”

You grit your teeth, closing your eyes to calm your nerves. You can actually feel your face harden when you look at him again.

“You _left_ us last night, Dean. You left us to go get fucked up and-” you gesture at his bruised eye, “-apparently get your ass kicked.”

“Woah!” It’s his turn to raise his voice now. “ _First_ of all, I’m not the one that got my ass kicked, he - _this_ is just a battle wound.” He juts a pointed finger at you, “Secondly, _you_ were the one that turned me away last night. I tried to help you, but _you_ shut me down!”

You’re completely taken aback at Dean’s accusation and you let out a small incredulous laugh, “Oh my god, are you seriously _blaming_ me for an incredibly vivid, incredibly _horrific_ nightmare?” You jut your chin at him, “I was _scared,_ Dean! I thought you were -” You clench your jaw. You can’t even bring yourself to say it.

“That’s not something you can fix with a hug and fucking glass of water,” you say lowly.

Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know what you want me to do…I can’t just snap my fingers and fix this.”

Your voice softens, “No, I know you can’t -” Your eyes widen a little as a thought sprouts in your mind. A very unconventional thought. \

No, Dean can’t make any of this go away - no one can, but he might be able to dull the trauma. Just a little.

“What? What is it?” he asks, jade eyes searching your face.

You clear your throat, clueless as to how you’re going to ask him to do this. “Um…” You swallow. “I know you can’t fix this, I know you can’t make it go away, but uh…”

_Shit. Just fucking go for it._

The words fly out of your mouth in a single, rapid stream. “Ineedyoutofuckme.”

Dean’s eyes bulge as he rears back. “You uh…you what now?”

“Look,” you sigh, “The shifter - it told me you thought about me…Never mind. It really doesn’t matter. There doesn’t have to be any feeling behind it - just think of it as…I dunno - therapy or something.” You sigh again, “You can’t erase this from history, but you _can_ deaden the pain some...Please?”

Dean’s face is frozen as he blinks at you, dumbfounded.

Okay, maybe you just need to elaborate.

“That _thing_ ,” you continue, “the way it just… _took_ me, the way it _touched_ me-”

“I get it.” He says, mouth quirking in a faint, but understanding smile. “It was me - I mean it wasn’t me…but it was me.” He wets his lips. “Are you sure?”

You look down at your hands as you give it a final thought. Your attacker wasn’t Dean, but it was using Dean’s body - he’s the only one who can right this; replace the shifter’s brutal touch with his softness.

“Yeah,” you breathe, “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he nods. He starts to rise, “Just a sec, my duffel’s in the bathroom. I’ve got some-”

You shake your head, “I’m on the pill, no worries.”

“Oh - okay then.”

The mattress creaks as Dean sits up to draw his legs up to cross in front of him. You’re the first to move, getting a knee up on the bed to crawl your way up to him. It feels like a dream when you tilt your head to capture his lips with yours. He doesn’t move at first, doesn’t even kiss back, and you’re just about to pull away when he suddenly reaches a hand up to card through your hair, gathering it at the nape of your neck.

And then there’s a sucking pressure as he begins to return the kiss, your mouth opening with want as he licks into your mouth. You feel your panties dampening with every hot swipe of his tongue and soon you’re breathing hungry little sounds into him. He leaves your mouth to move down to your jaw, to your neck. He seals his lips around your pulse point and _Christ,_ you’d forgotten how sensitive you are there.

Dean’s fingers are curling under the hem of your shirt now, and you lift your arms to allow him to slip it off of you. He pulls away to drink you in and you can actually see the lust cloud his eyes.

Your hands are on his shirt now, impatiently tugging the material up over his toned stomach. He takes over, crossing his arms in front of him to pull it over his head in one swift movement. Your hands fly to his warm, bare chest; smoothing over the skin to swipe your thumb over his anti-possession tattoo.

He gets a grip of your waist, pulling you up and forward to straddle his lap. You have to fight the urge to grind down on him, you don’t want to come on _too_ strong.

Big hands smooth up your sides and behind your shoulders to slip your bra straps down over your arms, careful to avoid your scabs. You reach behind you, the movement pushing your chest into his face as you release the clasp and he wastes no time in grabbing between the cups to free you from the garment.

Your head rolls back as Dean gathers your breasts in his hands, gently pressing his fingertips into the swells as he leans in to softly kiss the healing wounds on your chest.

You gasp at the heat of him, a dull ache forming at your core. This isn’t at all how you’d imagined sex with Dean, but _dear god_ , you’ll take it.

A hand leaves your left breast to curl behind your neck, bending it down so he can reclaim your lips. He releases you to press your forehead against his and hot tears sting behind your eyes at the tenderness of it all. You blink them away as you move to dip your head into the crook of his neck, distracting yourself with the scent of him.

His hands find your hips, gently pushing at them to roll you onto your back, going with you as you move. He hovers over you for a moment, leaning between your spread legs to blanket you with flesh and solid muscle.

You bite your lip, pushing your head back against the pillow as he pulls away to work at your jeans, popping the button and sliding down the zipper as he peels the denim down your thighs. He props your feet up on his chest when he gets your pants to your ankles, quickly slipping off your shoes and socks to leave you in just your thin panties.

Dean’s eyes take their time sweeping over you, the tip of his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth like he’s trying to decide what he wants to do next.

Then his hands are trailing up your thighs until he can hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties, shimmying them down your legs and off your feet to be forgotten somewhere with the rest of your clothes.

He shifts, positioning himself between your knees where he presses a warm kiss against your drenched folds. The contact makes your cunt twitch and your whole body shudders. You make a strangled noise when his tongue licks a velvety stripe right up your center, your hands going to fist the comforter on either side of you.

He brings a hand up to rest against your stomach, the other lifting your right thigh to rest over his shoulder.

“Oh, fuck!” you gasp when full lips suddenly seal around your entire pussy. You crane your neck to watch him, and you let out a whimper at the sight of his mouth on you, dark eyes locked onto yours, and then - _oh god_ \- then he’s hollowing his cheeks to suck at your flesh in an odd, pulsating rhythm.

He relaxes his mouth just as he fits his tongue inside you, your hands flying to tangle in your hair at the overwhelming pleasure.

And then he’s thrusting that velvet spear in and out of your dripping opening, replacing the quiet of the room with a wet squelching noise.

A thin sheen of sweat glazes your heated skin, dampening your hairline as he works you open. The hand on your stomach slides down to rest on your pubic bone as his thumb slips down to brush over your swollen clit, electric shocks of pleasure zip-lining through you with every swipe, accelerating the pressure building low in your belly.

Your eyes are cemented shut as Dean works you higher and higher. His tongue picks up the pace, taking his thumb with it, and soon all you feel is a burning, buzzing pleasure between your thighs.

Your orgasm comes out of nowhere, and you keen as you buck and writhe against him.

When you come to, Dean’s leaning over you; lips and cheeks glistening with the aftermath of your climax.

“Fuck,” you breathe. He gives you a lazy smile, but you don’t return it; instead, you’re reaching for the front of his jeans, desperate for more, desperate to be filled.

“Shhh,” Dean whispers, “I gotcha.” You drop your limp hand against the blankets as he leaves the bed to rid himself of the rest of his clothes. You watch him; arousal building again at the sight of miles of smooth, tanned skin.

You hadn’t meant to get this worked up, to get this fucking horny - yet here you are.

Bedsprings squeak as Dean finds his way back on top of you and your thighs instantly find their place around his hips, your ankles crossing at the small of his back.

He lowers himself to his elbows as he lines himself up, the height difference bringing his chest to your face. Your hands smooth up his back to press into the firm skin, inhaling sharply at the first press of his cock and he freezes, pulling away to search your face.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you breathe, smiling lazily. “Just worked up.”

He nods, “Kay, just tell me if it gets to be too much,” he whispers.

“I will,” you promise.

It burns a little when he pushes in, but you’re still so quivery with pleasure that the pain is quickly extinguished. He advances so slowly that it seems to take a lifetime for him to sheathe himself, both of you groaning when he finally bottoms out.

Warm lips meet your ear, “You good?” he rumbles.

“Mmhmm,” you manage.

The slow drag against your walls is dizzying as he rocks back, your eyes rolling back into your skull. He keeps this pace, leisurely fucking into you with deep, lazy strokes.

The shifter creeps into your mind for the first time since Dean has touched you, but it isn’t a flashback; it’s the surprise that he _hasn’t_ crossed your mind, that you _aren’t_ seizing up with fear with the realization that the same body that had savagely assaulted you just a couple of _days_ ago is now steadily grinding against yours.

Instead, all you feel is…trust, kindness, and not to mention - mind numbing _pleasure_.

Your cunt suctions around him with every roll of his hips, the head of his cock kissing your sweet spot with every thorough plunge. His pace quickens slightly once you’re fully adjusted to him, gasping as he works you both into oblivion.

Fresh sweat coats your skin, mingling with his as you rock underneath him and you have to work to keep your slippery legs locked around his waist.

The bed creaks and groans as you move against each other and you briefly wonder how thin the walls are - _shit_ \- what if Sam can hear you…But then Dean’s thrusting a little faster as his own pleasure builds and suddenly you don’t care anymore.

You’re lost to the sensations the hunter is working into you and soon you’re panting against him, “Please-please-please…” You don’t know what you’re begging for, you just know that you don’t want it to stop.

You feel your walls tightening around him and you know he feels it too, because now he’s grunting with every thrust. “Shit,” he grits, “M’gonna - fuck, I can’t-”

He’s warning you; waiting for you to tell him to pull out, but you aren’t going to. You want to feel him hot and wet inside you.

“Fuck, _yes…”_ you breathe. “ _Please_ , Dean-”

Your final warning is a twitch of his hips and then -

“Oh _god - oh…shit!”_ he chokes as he spills hot into you, triggering your second climax of the night as liquid heat floods your lower belly.

Your brain is static as you float back down to earth to find Dean crumpled against you. You’re not sure how long you lay there, but you finally have to push against him when breathing becomes difficult.

He groans as he rolls off of you, the bed squeaking under his weight.

“Shit,” Dean breathes beside you.

“Yeah…” you agree, sated smile plastered on your face.

His head turns toward you, “You okay?”

You swallow, chest heaving. “Mmm, more than okay,” you admit as you flop to your side to face him.

His face is flushed, eyes still a little glazed and your fingers itch to trace over the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

“Thank you,” you croak. “I know that was asking a lot-”

“Hey, stop…” he reaches out to take your hand, lacing your fingers with his, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “I’ve wanted that, wanted _you_ for so long…but I just - I couldn’tjeopardize-”

“I know,” you smile. “Me too.”

“C’mere,” he says, releasing your fingers to fit a hand on your hip, pulling you against him. You lay your head on his chest, soaking up the rumbling vibrations of his voice. “Sleep in here tonight?” Your heart flutters and butterflies swarm your belly for the first time in months.

You run a hand up his chest to rest against his shoulder, nuzzling your cheek firmly against him.

“I’d like that,” you whisper, as exhaustion begins to weigh down your eyelids.

You don’t feel the knuckles that smooth down your face, or the tender kiss pressed into your scalp as you drift to sleep. You don’t know it yet, but you’ll dream tonight; not of shapeshifters, or blood, or violence - but of green eyes and carefree car rides; you’ll dream of Dean.

 

 


	10. Chapter 9

You’re still curled into Dean’s side when you wake, skin to skin. A big arm lays outstretched beyond your head on his shoulder, while the other drapes across your hip.  Your eyes struggle to open, still heavy from sleep, so you roll to your back, bringing your hands up to rub at them until bright flashes of light dot your vision. Your thighs cling together as you stir, coated dry with the reminder of last night.

Dean breathes deep as you move, the muscles in his arm tensing and rolling under your neck as he stretches. He turns on his side, propping up on a forearm to gaze down at you, bringing a hand up to sweep your sleep-mussed hair out of your eyes.

* * *

 

“Mornin’.” His voice is gruff, hoarse from sleep.

“Mornin’,” you return.

He breathes out a sleepy sigh, “How’d ya sleep?”

You blink slow, letting your lids linger closed for a moment. “Good…really good,” you smile. “You?”

“Yeah…can’t remember the last time I slept like that.” Your stomach flutters a little at the implication that  _you’re_  the reason he’s so well-rested.

“Hungry?” he asks then.

“Yeah…think I’ll take a bath first though.”

His mouth curves up in a half-smirk. “You want some company?”

You prop up on an arm to align your face with his, “I ain’t gonna say no to that.” 

**********

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in the tub; your back flush with Dean’s solid chest while he runs his sudsy hands over your shoulders and down your arms. You wounds still sting a little, but the pain barely registers under the sensation of the hunter’s big hands on you.

You lean your head back to rest against him, just to the side of his chin. Water sloshes against the side of the tub as he loops both muscled arms around you, a thumb stroking back and forth across the skin just under your breasts.

“I don’t wanna leave,” you murmur, unsure if you’re speaking to him or yourself.

You feel his cheek press against the side of your wet head, jaw grating against it as he speaks. “No one’s goin’ anywhere.”

You run your hands along the corded forearms coiled around your middle, “We can’t stay here forever…We have to get gack to our lives.”

“I know,” he agrees. “But not right now.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, letting the truth of his words soak into you.

“Hey,” Dean grunts, hooking a finger underneath your jaw to bring your eyes to his. “Just…be. Y’know, here. With me.”

You stretch your neck to peck him on the lips and manage a soft smile, “‘Kay.”

**********

You and Dean walk into the kitchen side by side just as Sam is finishing his cup of coffee. There’s a steaming plate of stacked pancakes at the center of the table, the buttery-syrupy aroma wafting straight to your stomach.

Sam raises an eyebrow at the two of you as he clunks his empty coffee mug against the table.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” you echo, smirking as Dean immediately busies himself with his plate.

“…I’ll get the coffee,” you say to no one in particular as you shuffle toward the cabinet. There’s a wordless silence in the room, only the sounds of Dean’s fork clinking against his plate and the trickling pour of the coffee you’re sloshing into the mugs.

Sam clears his throat,“So…” he says, breaking the tension. “Guess I’m officially the third wheel now.” Dean chokes, fork clattering loud against his plate. You nearly drop the mug in your hand.

The younger Winchester laughs, “What? You really think I wasn’t gonna notice the fact that you both came strolling in here together…wet-headed?” You cast a wide-eyed glance at Dean. Sam continues, zeroing his attention on you, as he jabs a pointed finger in your direction. “Not to mention  _your_ bedroom was empty when I went to bed…at one a.m.”

“Dude.” Dean grunts, “you done?”

Sam chuckles, light and airy, “I’m just saying—I’m happy for you guys. Really.” You can’t help but look at Dean, beaming inside. He catches your eyes briefly, gives you a tight smile before clearing his throat,

“Uh—so. I was just thinkin’…we should all go out tonight.”

You and Sam exchange glances. “What? Like go to a bar?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, taking another bite.

“That didn’t work out so well for you last time,” Sam comments, voice playfully light as he gestures towards the slightly fading bruise shadowing Dean’s eye.

Dean rolls his eyes and swallows. “That was different. That—never mind. Shut up.” You huff a quiet chuckle at Dean’s grumpiness as you make your way to the table, setting a steaming mug next to Dean’s half-empty plate before taking a seat opposite Sam.

“I dunno,” you say, stretching an arm out to stab a pancake with your fork. “I mean, this is our vacation. We can go to a bar anytime.”

“Exactly,” Dean says. “We can go anytime. Like tonight.”

“What’s the occasion?” Sam asks, hazel eyes dancing between you and his brother. “Celebrating something?”

“No,” Dean grunts, a little too quickly. You snap your head towards him, and his eyes soften. “I didn’t mean—I just, I dunno. I just wanna hang out, I guess. The three of us.”

Your stare lingers on him for a second longer before you heave a sigh, bringing your gaze to Sam, who simply shrugs,

“I’m game for whatever, guys.”

Even though he didn’t give an actual answer, you still feel like you’ve been out-voted. “Okay,” you breathe. “Sure.” You turn your head to Dean, “Let’s just…not get too trashed?” He gives you a look, you may have used a collective term, but he knows you’re referring to him.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Let’s just have fun tonight.”

**********

Bo’s Place is small, run-down dive, but there are plenty of cars parked in the dusty lot—it seems to be hopping, but there doesn’t seem to be much of a nightlife in this small town. You let the boys lead, gravel crunching under your boots as you follow close behind.

The bar is a nondescript one, a scattering of high-top tables to the left of the saloon style entrance, and a pool table to the right. The three of you make your way to the bar straight ahead, where you take a seat between the brothers, hopping up on the black, scratch-marked stool.

The bartender approaches, white towel draped over his right shoulder, to take your orders. You settle for a Jack and Coke while the guys opt for a local draft.

“See?” Dean has to shout a little, over noisy bar chatter and rock music, “Doesn’t this beat starin’ at the walls of the cabin?” Sam shrugs.

“I dunno,” you say-shout, “I’m already kinda missing the peace and quiet.” Dean laughs, piercing green eyes glinting in the neon lights. “You say that now, but wait til you get a couple a drinks in ya.”

It doesn’t take long for the bartender to return with three glasses. You grimace a little at the first sip; it’s stronger than you’d anticipated, but the burn of the whiskey flows nice and warm down your throat.

The three of you sip your drinks as you engage in small talk; most of it involving judging the other (mainly drunk) patrons in the bar. You have to admit, it  _is_  kind of nice to unwind. Not that you can’t at the cabin, but there’s definitely been some tension sitting stagnant behind those wooden walls. Even after last night…and what was with Dean this morning? He was so closed off…even after what he’d said during your shared bath. Oh god…Is he having regrets?

You close your eyes, maybe a little liquid therapy is just what the doctor ordered.

Dean downs the last swallow of the amber fluid before jerking his head toward the pool table. “You guys wanna hustle?”

“Yeah, why not?” Sam agrees after a moment. “We could always use a little extra cash.” He nudges you with his elbow, “You coming?”

“Nah,” you say. “Think I’ll sit this one out, but uh—good luck!”

You watch as they work—Dean is the drunk tonight; and  _man,_  he has that intoxicated stumble-shuffle down to a T. Sam’s playing the sober buddy, the friend that “tries” to convince him not to bet so high, to sit a game or two out while he sobers up. You giggle into the last sip of your drink, they’re a little too good at this.

You’re about to order another when when someone slides into the stool next to you.

“Heya, beautiful—can I buy you a drink?”

 

 


	11. Chapter 10

You startle a little, whipping around to face the unfamiliar voice. He’s attractive; tanned skin, deep blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair—styled very similar to Dean’s. In fact, he could almost pass for a brother. “Um, no thank you,” you say, throwing him a brief, tight smile.

You start to turn when he lays a hand on your forearm, “I’m Ben,” he says, offering you a hand. “Thanks, Ben,” you say, voice hardening in irritation, “but I’m here with someone.”

He cocks his head, blue eyes darting around the space around you, “I don’t see anyone, gorgeous.” You roll your eyes, jerking your head toward the pool table. “They’re busy at the moment.”

“They? Which one’s—”

“Does it matter?”

Ben chuckles, clears his throat, “I’m sorry,” he says, holding his hands up in a surrendering gesture, “I’m jusy saying, if you were with  _me_ , you wouldn’t be sitting at the bar all by yourself.”

“Maybe I  _like_  to be by myself,” you say cooly, smiling a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

The stranger licks his lips, mouth twitching in an almost-smirk. His face seems to freeze there, eyes darkening as they narrow. “I was just offering you a drink. No need to be rude.”

You’re past annoyed now, and there’s something else there, something that twists and knots up your insides. You’re nervous. And not the uncomfortable-around-strangers-nervous. This is heart-pounding gut instict. This is intuition.

Something is wrong.

You slide off the stool, one step into making your way toward the brothers when an arm coils around your waist—

And suddenly you’re back in your kitchen. With the shapeshifter.

_No. This isn’t happening again._

“Get your fucking hands off of me. Now.” You’re both surprised and relieved at how level your voice is, given the circumstance.

“I may not know you,” he hisses into your ear, “but I know bitches  _like_  you…” Your eyes frantically search the bar dart toward the pool table—the guys are gone.

Fuck! They were just here—

Ben continues, “You think you’re better than anyone else…think just because you’re  _pretty,_ you can do whatever the hell you want, screw who you want. Just because you can.”

 _Okay, so this guy’s crazy._ He’d almost  _have_  to be, to threaten you in public like this.

“There a problem here, kiddo?”

Ben immediately drops his arm, whirling around to face not one, but  _two_  looming men.

“Who the hell are you?”

Dean just smiles, “No one important, really…Hey, why don’t we step outside and get to know each other?” He cooly suggests, throwing him a wink for good measure.

Ben smirks, “She yours?”

Dean works his jaw, steels his eyes, “Maybe. But the thing is…I kinda…got a thing for fuckheads who like to prey on pretty girls. Hell—any girls for that matter.”

“And by thing…he means homicide,” Sam’s velvety voice pipes in.

You toss the young Winchester a warning glance. Advertising murder is  _probably_ not a good idea, especially in the middle of a seedy bar.

“Ya know what?” Ben chuckles, “She’s not even worth the hassle. And neither are you guys.” He turns to leave, clumsily clipping a table with his hip as he goes.

Dean starts after him, but Sam throws an arm out, barracading him.

“Take his advice man, s’not worth it. Let him go.”

The eldest Winchester’s eyes are dark, almost blank as he watches the creep leave. The muscles in his face twitch and spasm with pent up anger, but he heeds his brother’s word, shoulders dropping as he releases the tension.

“You okay?” Sam asks, turning to you as he drops his arm. “Yeah, I just ah…” you huff out an unamused laugh, “I’m having a shit week it seems.”

He gets a long arm around you, pulling you in for a sideways hug while Dean heads back to the bar to pay his tab. You wrap both arms around his lengthy torso, laying your head against his side because you can’t reach his shoulder.

“You guys get a chance to win anything?”

“Nah, but uh, Dean managed to swipe a hundred off one of ‘em,” he chuckles.

“What?!” you hiss, “That’s stealing!”

“We’re  _hustling_  pool…we’re stealing by definition,” Sam points out.

“True,” you concede.

“So—”

“We ready to go?” You pull away from Sam’s embrace at Dean’s voice, moving to slide up next to him, but he’s already several feet ahead of you, already has his hands outstretched to barge through the wooden door.

Sam jogs ahead to catch up with his brother, leaving you trailing behind. You see Dean shake his head underneath the golden glow of the parking lot lights, can hear the low murmuring of their voices, but you can’t make out any words.

When the three of you are standing next to your respective doors, Dean pauses, fingering at his car keys.

“Hey Sam? There’s a gas station ‘bout a mile down the road. Mind fillin’ her up for me?”

Sam’s face melts into confusion, “Um…”

But then Dean throws him a pointed glare, and you nod grimly to yourself as it suddenly all makes sense; he wants to talk.

Dean tosses the keys over the roof of the car, the glinting metal arching straight into Sam’s massive palm. You and Dean back away, watching as Sam creaks the old door open, flopping into the drivers seat.

You flinch a little when Baby roars to life, leaving a trail of dust behind as Sam guides her toward the highway.

Dean doesn’t speak for a full minute, just watches as Baby’s tail lights fade into the dark distance. But you can see how he chews at the inside of cheek, how his mouth twitches as he chooses his words.

Finally, he licks his lips, “We can’t be together,” he states flatly, turning his body to face yours.

“What?” you gape at him.

He laughs a quiet, humorless laugh, juts a pointed finger toward the bar, “ _That_ , in there, that’s exactly why we can’t-”

“Oh, so  _I’m_  to blame for what happened?”

“I didn’t finish, s’not what I mean.”

You clench your jaw, crossing your arms as you wait for him to continue.

“I can’t protect you, kid.” He says solemnly, shaking his head. “We were both idiots for ever thinkin’ I could.”

“I never asked you to protect me,” you counter icily. “I never  _expected_ you to protect me—ever! Not from the shifter, and  _especially_  not from any humans.” Your voice rises with every word, “You were the one who wanted to turn this into something. YOU were the one who planted the goddamned seed!

You’re panting now, chest heaving with emotion when Dean reaches for you, “Whoa, just calm down a little—”

“No!” you bat his hand away. “What was that this morning, huh? In the tub. Or was that just something you knew I wanted to hear?”

“No, of course n—”

“That the kind of shit you tell all the girls after getting your rocks off?” You darkly laugh down the tears stinging at your eyes, “Jesus, why am I even mad? I fucking  _told_  you that last night was for therapeutic reasons, there didn’t have to be feelings. Y’know. Other than a nice warm cunt for you to sink your dick into. Glad I could be of service.”

Dean tries to calm you down; you hear him repeating your name, how he keep his voice smooth and even, but you’re not having any of it.

You shiver, unsure if it’s from the chilly night air, or your raw nerves.

“Ya know what?” you scoff, “Fuck you, Dean.”

And with that, you turn on your heels, heading out into the cool night. You don’t know where you’re going, and you don’t care.

As long as it’s far away from Dean Winchester.


	12. Chapter 11

You hear Dean barking your name under the crunch of dirt and gravel as you stomp your way toward the road; you ignore him. There’s nothing he can say to stop you—but then he gets a heavy grip on your upper arm, tugging you backwards.

“Get off of me!” your voice is half growl, half shriek as you jerk loose from his hold. He holds his hands up in surrender, but he isn’t backing away.

“Where the hell are you  _going_?” It’s hard to read his shadowy face with the bar lights behind him, but you can make out a hard shine in eyes. You scoff. He doesn’t get to be mad,  _he_  did this.

“The fuck do you care?” you throw back.

“I’m not gonna let you wander around alone this time of night.”

“That’s funny,” you sardonically laugh, “sounds like you’re trying to  _protect_  me.” 

Dean drops his shoulders, let’s his head hang low on his neck. “Can you—can we just finish this back at the cabin?”

Your head rocks back in repulsion; like hell, you’re going back there with him.

“I’ll go back,” you sneer, voice low, “to get my shit. And then I’m gone.”

“I’m not letting you leave like this. You can’t go back home. Not now.”

“Excuse me?” you laugh, “You don’t get to tell me—”

“You can’t go back to that house…You  _know_  you can’t.”

You look down, sucking a cheek in to chew on the silky tissue. It pisses you off, but he’s right; you can’t go back there. It’s not a home anymore.

But your pride is strong, always has been one of your biggest flaws.

“Who said I’m going home? I can start over—wouldn’t be the first time.” The coldness in your voice is surprsing, even to you.

Dean doesn’t say anything for several seconds, eyes trained on the ground as he kicks the pebbly dirt around with his boot. “

When he finally lifts his head, you have to look away. “You think I want this? You really think I don’t care?” his voice wavers, the softness of it making your chest clench.

“This— _all_ of this…it’s on me.”

You raise your head at that, squinting at the absurdity of the statement. “What? No, it’s not—”

“ _I_  fucked up!” he thunders, your bones quaking at his booming timbre. “I had him,” he murmers, voice joltingly soft again, “I fucking  _had_ him.” He breathes out a shaky breath, “I missed,” he laughs, mocking himself. “I had the shot, and I fucking missed.”

You shiver, not sure if it’s from Dean’s confession or from the chilly night air. You tuck your arms underneath your breasts, fingers curling into your palms. “Dean,” you lick at your drying lips, “none of this is your fault. None of it…Hell, if we need to blame someone here…then blame me.”

He shakes his head,“Kid, no—”

“No, really,” you press, “I was genius enough to be armed to the  _teeth_  with everything but my phone. You warned me. And if I’d looked at the fucking thing before…before answering the—” You clear your throat. Fuck, you can’t even say it. “If I’d read your texts, none of this would have happened.”

“No—that’s not—no. This isn’t on you, not in the least.”

You let out a slow sigh. “Then can we agree that sometimes bad things just…happen? Things out of our control?”

Dean stuffs his hands into his jean pockets, chews at his lip as he nods thoughtfully. “Maybe…I just—” you can see the faint fluttering of lashes as he closes his eyes, “I dunno. I just feel repsonsible for you.”

You smile in a kind of annoyed understanding as you tip your head back, gaze cast toward the black velvet sky, “That’s just your nature. Can’t be helped.” You roll your head forward, locking your eyes on his, “But, just so you know, you’re  _not_  responsible for me.”

The low grumble of the approaching Impala squashes any argument that might be brewing in Dean’s brain, the sleek black brute of a car coming to a rolling stop next to you.

Sam peeks his head out over the half-lowered window, shaggy locks rustling in the slight breeze, “Do I need to take another spin around the block?”

Dean gives you final glance, “Nah. Let’s go.”

*****

You’re sitting on the sofa, legs curled to your side, tired eyes fixed on nothing in front of you.

“Hey.”

You jolt a little, startled at the sudden rasp of Sam’s voice.

“Hey.”

He eases down into the leather next to you, the cushion groaning under his weight. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you smile, tight. “Always.”

He breathes out a long sigh, “Dean won’t talk, but—just know that I’m here—y’know. If you need to someone to listen.”

“Thanks,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

You sit in silence for several moments, breathing in the tension. “Look,” Sam finally says, “I dunno what happened, but he cares about you. A lot. We both do. But he…” The young hunter clears his throat, dips his head forward in a bashful smile, “If you catch my drift.”

You laugh through your nose, know what he’s trying to say. “Yeah, well he obviously doesn’t care about me as much as he cares about his hero complex.” 

Sam’s mouth curls up in a sad smile as he studies his hands, “He’s just been going through a lot—I mean before…y’know—with Dad and everything.”

You rake your fingers through your hair. “I know,” you nod, “and honestly—that’s what you guys should be doing right now. You need to get back to the search…not waisting your time babysitting me. I’m gonna be okay.” You’re a little surprised at how much you actually believe those words. Maybe you  _are_ healing…

Or maybe you’re still in shock. You haven’t truly been alone since it happened. Maybe the Winchesters are your security blanket and when you all get back to your lives—

“No. If Dad’s alive…then he obviously doesn’t wanna be found. Not yet, anyway.” Sam doesn’t even try to hide the anger that darkens his eyes, tenses his jaw.

“And…if he’s not?” you breathe the words before you can stop yourself. Shit.

_Way to go, putting that out in the universe._

“Then why bother?” He’s not looking at you anymore, autumn eyes glazed and unfocused ahead.

You get a hand on his knee, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he breathes, “It’s okay, I just—”

“Really?”

You jerk your hand away as you both turn, startled to find Dean at the entrance of the room. His jaw is set, brows angled harshly over the dark green of his eyes.

“That’s your play? Wait til my back is turned so you can make your move?”

“What? No—” Sam shakes his head, “This isn’t—”

“Jesus  _Christ_ , Dean.” You bite. He can’t be serious.

You scrub a hand over your face, “We were fucking  _talking —_ No. Y’know what? I’m not explaining myself.” You shake your head, rising off of the sofa. “This is ridiculous,” you seethe, pushing past him as you make your way to your bedroom.

He lets you, barely reacting to your intentional shoulder-shove as he keeps his hardened gaze anchored on his brother.

*****

You’re sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed, your head tipped back over the hard edge of the headboard as you study the ceiling. You can hear their deep, muffled voices rumbling through your door, Dean’s occasionally rising to drown out Sam’s. You try to pick out words and phrases, but you’re too tired, too pissed off to put much effort into it.

The voices finally stop, and there’s a distant wooden slam—cabinet door maybe? And then thumping boots against hard floor—and then another, much louder slam; loud enough to make you flinch. That was definitely a bedroom door.

You laugh solemnly to yourself as your nerves settle; this time last night Dean was making you feel so good, and you were happier than you’d been in…hell—ever. And you’d slept; really,truly, deeply _slept_  for the first time since…

Since that before that night.

Now you’re doing everything in your power to avoid the man you’ve long pined for.

You close your eyes;  _Jesus_. The nerve—the fucking  _nerve_. He breaks up with you before you’re even together…and then gets jealous because he finds you talking to Sam?

And you’d always thought  _you_  were neurotic.

You heave an agitated sigh; it’s been a long day, a long night. Maybe you just need to sleep this off.

*****

You toss and turn, not a bit closer to sleep than you were when you’d first turned off the light an hour ago. You just can’t get the argument out of your head, how his words completely cancelled out everything he’d said to you in the tub this morning. Why bother building up all that hope and promise when had to intention of carrying it through anyway?

You press the heels of your palms into your eyelids until your see stars. You hate feeling like this, hate being mad at him.

You kick the offending covers off of you, heaving yourself up to hop off the bed. Your bare feet thump across the cool, hard wood floor as you march toward the door; you’re going to finish this.

Tonight.


	13. Chapter 12

Pain blooms across your knuckles as you roughly bang them against Dean’s bedroom door. You count to ten before knocking again. Nothing. You curl your hand into a fist, banging the meaty side of it against the polished wood, not stopping until the door finally swings open—

“Jesus Christ,  _what?_ ”

You give him a hard glare as you shoulder past him, leaving him to stare at the empty hallway until he slams the door shut, whirling around to face you.

His features are sharp—any other day you might actually be intimidated, but not now.

You’re too pissed.

“What the hell is going on with you?”

The hunter rolls his eyes, crossing his arms exasperatingly over his wide chest. “Nothing,” he clips, voice flat.

Christ, he sounds like a fucking girl.

“Dean…” You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your tired face, “Please tell me what’s going on. Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

A couple of long seconds pass as you search for the right words. “You’re just…I dunno. Dark.” You lick your lips, huff out a clipped, solemn laugh, “What happened to my goofy, fun Dean?”

He gives you a look that you can’t quite place. “Dark,” he repeats, nodding. “Okay. You wanna do this?” he asks, “You wanna know why? You  _really_  wanna know?”

The volume of his voice increases with every word as he takes slow steps toward you, bulky boots thumping against wood until you’re merely inches apart. You nod tightly, prompting him to continue,

“My dad’s gone M.I.A,” Dean starts, eyes burning into you, “he leaves me with nothing but fucking coordinates—a fucking goose chase. Sending me on  _jobs_. Ordering me around like I’m still twelve fucking years old!”

You flinch at the boom of his voice, contemplating whether or not you shoul back away before he presses on, “I yanked my brother out of a normal life, pulled him back into this clusterfuck—” He stops abruptly, looks away as he purses his lips. When his eyes find yours again, the hardness is gone, replaced by what can only be described as gut-wrenching pain.

“Oh,” he says, voice softening, “and here’s the real zinger: you were raped because I’m just  _that_  shitty of a hunter.” He runs a hand through his hair, laughing grimly, “So, uh, forgive me if I’m missing the sunshine and lollipops.”

You gape dumbly at him as he spills his sins, and you can feel your throat closing up with the threat of tears.

“Dean,” you breathe, speaking slowly, choosing your words carefully, “your dad—that isn’t on you, he’ll show when he’s ready. And Sam? You aren’t forcing him. He can go back to that life whenever he wants…Don’t you get it?” you ask, slanting your head,  “He  _wants_  to be here, to be by your side.”

You take a step forward, closing the distance as you reach up to cup his rough, shadowed cheeks in your palms. “And my—” you pause, glancing to the side as you reorganize your thoughts, “what happened to me is  _not_  your fault? Okay? It had  _nothing_ to do with you. It just…happened. It was awful and terrifying, but it happened. And now it’s over.”

Dean closes his eyes, drops his head until it’s nothing but warm weight in your hands. You give him a firm shake until his eyes pop back open, “ _Okay?”_  you repeat, raising your voice. “It’s. Over.”

You don’t even register the flash of movement before the hunter fits a hand around the nape of your neck, crashing his mouth to yours in a heady kiss that’s all lips, tongue, and teeth. You let out a breathy moan, relaxing into the whiskey-spice scent of him as he works his lips against yours.

He curls a heavy arm around the small of your back pulling you until your chest is flush against his, metal belt buckle digging into your stomach through your shirt. Your hands are still on his face, his stubble scratching against your palms.

Your head spins when Dean finally breaks the kiss, both of you gulping in each other’s air. “I want you kid,” he pants. “Fuck. I need you, I just…” He falls silent as he closes his eyes, shaking his head somberly.

You swallow as your heartrate returns to normal, licking the taste of him off your lips. “Why can’t we be happy?” you whisper. Dean’s eyes crack open at that, blinking at you as he drinks in your words. “Huh?” you press. “Is there a hunter’s contract that I missed? That says we can’t be happy?” At his silence, you push on, “Jesus, Dean. This job—it’s hard, it’s messy, it’s ugly…So why can’t we have something nice? Something good.”

Dean lets out a slow, shuddering breath, dewy eyes shining under the dull light of the room, “I just…I can’t—I can’t lose you,” he whispers.

You can feel the slow swell in your chest, the lump building in your throat. “If I die, it ain’t gonna be because of you, cowboy.” Your lips twitch in a pained smile, and Dean laughs then, long lashes blinking back glancing tears.

He leans forward, capturing your lips again, but this time it’s slow; careful. The arm around your back slips away, his big hand reaching up to smooth your hair back as he slips his tongue past your teeth, tasting you instead of claiming. The kiss is so good, so  _perfect_  that you’re completely content with ending the night just like this.

But then he’s sliding his hand from the back of your neck to your shoulder, smoothing down your arm to toy with the hem of your nightshirt. You freeze when warm fingers dip underneath the cotton, brushing at your skin. You gently break the kiss, getting a grip on his wide wrist, haulting his movements.

“If we do this again,” you warn, locking your gaze onto his, “it’s for keeps.”

You fully expect him to pull away, to reject you for good, but then he smiles that happy, boyish smile that you miss so much, jade eyes sparkling bright.

“Deal.”


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, guys. Tis the completion of my very first series. Thank you so much for reading <3

Your back bounces off the unmade bed with a soft thud, Dean right after you, flopping down to cage you inside well-trained forearms. You smooth your fingers through his short hair as he closes his eyes, ducking down for another kiss, soft lips lazily clinging to yours. His eyes flicker open as he pulls away, the forest green of them glittering in the warm light of the bedside lamp.

A hand finds its way back underneath your shirt, experienced fintertips grazing along the sensitive skin at your sides. You chew at your lip in an attempt to contain your giddy grin, but then the hunter gets a grip at the hem, tugging it up to expose inch after inch of your rapidly heating flesh before leaving the fabric bunched just underneath your chin.

You welcome the slight chill of the room as you gaze up at Dean, bringing your thumb down to swipe over the perfect curve of his plump lower lip. His eyes don’t leave yours as he raises up to his knees to discard of his own shirt, tossing it to be forgotten somewhere on the hardwood floor.

Your hands immediately go for his belt as delicious wet heat pools between your open thighs, but he stops you, batting your fingers away with a flick of knuckles.

“Patience, kid,” he smirks before leaning back down to tuck two fingers into the cup of your bra, peeling the lace back to lick a nipple into his mouth. Your eyes flutter closed,  airy sigh pushing past your lips as he sucks at the bud, your fingers lacing at the back of his head, holding him flush against you, reveling in the continuous hot-wet swipe of his tongue.

His free hand curves around your side, calloused fingertips depressing the flesh as he works you higher. You moan softly behind closed lips as you lay underneath him, jolting a little when he surprises you with a mild nibble.

He moves to the other breast, leaving the nipple slick and tingly as he releases the cup to gently snap back against you. Your hands slip down to curve lax around the back of his neck, thumbs absently brushing along the stubbled line of his jaw.

“Please,” you whisper, unashamed of the neediness thickening your voice, “want you so bad.”

Dean releases you with a soft smack, eyes darkening as he leans in to capture your lips, briefly licking into you before drawing back, big hands gliding down your stomach to tuck his fingers underneath the double waistbands of your shorts and panties. You cant your hips, helping him to shimmy the material down your legs and off your feet to join his abandoned t-shirt.

You raise to a sitting position, ridding yourself of your nightshirt and bra just before Dean crowds into you again, dropping to your back as he positions himself between your thighs. The muscled forearms braced beyond your head inch downward as he begins to pepper warm kisses down the length of your throat and your upper chest, hot tongue snaking out to lick down the valley of your breasts before nipping down the soft flesh of your stomach.

Your hips jerk when soft lips peck at your clit, meaty palms kneading at your spread thighs as he dips his tongue down to tease at your folds, liquid heat flooding your veins.

“F-fuck-” you whimper, knuckles blanching into the sheets as wet-hot velvet swipes over your entrance, swirling around the slick collected there. There’s a glimpse of hot air against you and then he’s dragging the flat of his tongue up the length of your cunt to flick at your nub. The moisture from his mouth mingles with your arousal as he continues to lap at you, fingertips pulsing against the skin of your thighs.

You’re not prepared when Dean licks into your weeping channel, bucking your hips up into his face. The action draws a deep chuckle from his chest, setting your  _entire_  pussy on vibrate.

“Oh, shi— _ohmygoddd_ …” you groan as sweat begins to gather at your hairline, adrenaline and arousal thrumming hot under your skin.

A hand slips from your left thigh, the ghost of his touch still lingering as he slips his tongue from you, only to run a finger down the length of your folds to prod at your glistening opening.

Dean breathes out a moan as he worms his finger inside, sliding in to the last knuckle. “Damn, honey,” he mutters, “you gonna pop for me so soon? You’re already squeezing me.”

“N-nngh,” you try, but then he’s inching a second digit into you, the warm pad of his thumb brushing back and forth over your clit.

Dean huffs a chuckle at your desperation as he begins to pump his fingers, immediately crooking them  _right there._  The drag is already phenomenal against your slick walls, but then he’s  _spreading_  those long fingers, working you open.

He slips his thumb to the side to seal full lips around your clit as he pumps you harder, and you can feel the band in your lower belly growing tighter and tighter with every slick plunge of his fingers.

“ _Shiiit,_ ” you keen, screwing your eyes shut. “I’m—oh god, I’m gonna—”

“That’s it, gorgeous,” Dean croons, “just let go for me.”

And then your jaw goes slack as the band snaps, white light flashing behind your eyelids as you clamp down on his pistoning fingers.

The sound of metal clinking is what finally coaxes your eyes open; Dean is kneeling between your limp legs, sliding the brown leather belt from it’s buckle, and  _jesus,_ just the sight has fresh arousal building back in your belly.

Your mouth waters when he pulls his heavy cock out of the wide V of his opened jeans, wide head glistening with need, and you desperately want it in your mouth, eager to return the favor—but then he’s tugging the denim down over his hips, not bothering to take them completely off as he inches his knees closer.

Dean gets his hands underneath your thighs, tugging you towards him before lining himself up. He curls his fingers around the bulky base of his cock, runs the blunt tip up and down the length of your slit, smearing precome to mingle with your own wetness before pressing against your entrance.

He leans forward, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of your shoulders as he works his length into you, the aftermath of your climax providing a wet slicking sound as he pushes in. You moan low at the filling stretch—his fingers felt great, but this? This is  _spectacular._

Dean slowly rocks out to the tip before smoothly gliding back in to the hilt. Your hands find his shoulders, fingertips dipping into firm skin as he begins to roll his hips in a smooth, steady rhythm.

You push your head back farther into the mattress to search his face; his brows are furrowed in pleasure over hooded eyes, lips parted, pink tongue pressed against pearly teeth.

“You feel so good,” you breathe, keeping your gaze anchored to his as you pull your legs up to lock at the small of his back. A corner of his mouth pulls up in a lazy smile as his hips quicken their pace.

You smooth your hands across the broad expanse of his shoulders, curving your palms against the back of his head to pull him down for a smoldering kiss. He lets you take charge as you slip your tongue past his lips; tasting yourself on him. Your lips softly pull at his until he starts to strengthen his thrusts—your mouth goes lax, eyes rolling back in your head as Dean firmly pumps into your heat.

You let your hands slip from his head to flop down against the cool pillow behind you, fingers scrunching into the soft pillowcase. Dean shifts, capturing your hands to interwine your fingers with his, pressing the backs of them into the plush cushion.

A thin glaze of sweat glistens on his smooth chest, his skin slicking over yours as he rocks against you, the electric friction  _delicious_  against your hardened nipples.

He’s fucking into you so deeply that his lower stomach brushes against your clit with every thrust, prompting your hips to buck up against him, your body seeking out more stimulation.

Dean’s soft moans deepen into clipped grunts as he approaches his release, and the mere thought of him filling your belly with liquid heat is sending you hurtling toward your own.

You stretch your neck until your lips brush against his ear, “Please, Dean,” you whisper, “come inside me—I wanna—oh  _goddd_ , I wanna feel it… _please-please-please_ …” You’re chanting your pleas in time with his rapid thrusts and then—

“Oh—oh  _shit_ , kid,” he chokes just as he starts to spill his release. The sensation of hot wet flooding your channel throws you over the edge, your walls locking down on him as icy heat pumps through your veins and your muscles harden into steel.

Dean continues to fuck into your clenching cunt as he empties himself, salty drops of sweat splattering against your neck as your body spasms in rolling aftershocks.

He swifly pulls out, bedsprings creaking as he rolls off the bed to rid himself of the jeans still bunched around his thighs, toeing off socks and boots.

It takes all of your energy to pull yourself to your side, drawing your legs together as his spendings slowly trickle over your heated skin.

You nuzzle into Dean’s damp neck as he slides back into bed, sliding a palm up and over his still-heaving chest. He stretches an arm out to curl around your back, thumb tracing invisible patterns into your clammy flesh.

Several moments of contented silence pass before Dean speaks again,

“Whaddya say we get outta here in the morning?”

“That sounds good, actually,” you say, “think I’m starting to get a little stir crazy…but, do you think Sam’s ready to leave?”

Dean’s deep chuckle vibrates into your palm on his chest, “He’s my little brother,” he rumbles, “he has to do what I say.”

You snort at that, “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Nah,” Dean says after a beat, “I kinda get the feeling he’s ready to leave too.”

“So…” You start, unsure of how to ask, “what’s next?”

“Next?”

“Yeah, I mean…I’m ready to leave, but I’m not ready to go home.” You chance a glimpse at his face, trying to gauge his reaction.

He lolls his head toward you, brings a free hand to smooth the stray hair out of your eyes, “ _This_  is home,” he says, pulling his hand back to pat at the back of yours still splayed over his chest. “Move in with us,” he murmurs, “put all that shit behind you…I mean, it’s over right?”

“Yeah,” you smile briefly before your lips curve into a frown, brows wrinkling in confusion, “but, um, Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“You uh…you don’t have a place.”

His shoulders lift in a careless shrug, “I have Baby,” he says, “c’mon, sweetheart,” he grins, emerald eyes shimmering, “nothing says security like living out of a car.”

You snigger, nuzzling deeper into his neck. “Seriously, I’d follow you anywhere, Dean,” you murmur into his skin, “I mean that.”

“The hell did I do to deserve you?” Dean asks, thumbing circles into the back of your hand.

You lift up on an elbow, your messy hair curtaining your flushed cheeks, “I dunno,” you muse, voice light, “you are kind of a dick.”

Dean smiles up at you, “I’ll be your dick, if you’ll be my pain in the ass.”

You smile back before leaning down to peck him on the lips,

“I thought you’d never ask.”

~~~~~~~

The End.


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